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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24237070">𝚂𝚑𝚒𝚏𝚝</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/stopthat/pseuds/stopthat'>stopthat</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes &amp; Related Fandoms</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Best Friends, But mostly fluff, Cuddling &amp; Snuggling, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Sex, Eventual Smut, Family Fluff, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Getting Together, John Watson Being an Idiot, Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, POV John Watson, Post-Canon, Post-Season/Series 04, Readable as is—no cliffhangers, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Unconventional Relationship, WIP but basically wrapped up, soft smut</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 19:36:06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>41,566</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24237070</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/stopthat/pseuds/stopthat</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is tired.<br/>
John senses a shift.</p><p>◒</p><p>
  <i>“I’m tired, John,”  He murmurs.  Barely a whisper.  John swallows, feeling irrationally helpless.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“I can see that,”  He responds quietly, tracing an eyebrow with the pad of his thumb.  “Sleep, then,”  He can hear the crack in his own voice—a perfect match for the one in his chest.  He hopes that Sherlock won’t notice, won’t try to pick it all apart.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“Not what I meant,”  He rumbles, as he drifts off and away, leaving John alone in wakefulness to wonder what the hell had just happened.</i>
</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sherlock Holmes/John Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>570</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>596</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. One</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p><a href="https://youtu.be/G8SmkwS82u4">Time Has Told Me</a> by Nick Drake ♪</p><p> </p><p>  <i>time has told me<br/>you're a rare, rare find<br/>a troubled cure<br/>for a troubled mind</i></p><p> </p><p>  <i>and time has told me<br/>not to ask for more<br/>so someday our ocean<br/>will find its shore</i></p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Yes, yes, it's cheesy to post lyrics prominently at the beginning of a story.  Get over it because my tacky ways will not be contained.</p><p>Wanted to write an ongoing story that's mostly fluff—a bit of angst, and maybe some humor—with no complicated plot to keep track of.  Takes place a couple of years after S4.  I have a bit more written, but not much, and will post as I go.  Not sure how long it'll end up being, probably nothing too epic.  </p><p>Definitely a work in progress—thanks for giving it a shot!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>◓</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Sherlock,”  John is a patient man.  He doesn’t take it to heart when his best friend disappears for days on end—sending only a text message in his wake declaring that no, he won't be needing John's assistance.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Sherlock,”</span>
  </em>
  <span>  He doesn’t overreact when said best friend is found to be teaching his three year old how to create a minor explosion at the kitchen table.  He’s a forgiving man—and he ought to be—because he himself has done more than a few things that have required forgiveness.  But </span>
  <em>
    <span>this—</span>
  </em>
  <span>“Sherlock, for god’s sake,” John scoots down the couch, away from the bony feet that have wedged their way beneath his thigh.  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It had begun only moments ago when Sherlock flung himself down beside John, ridiculous mop of curls propped on the opposite arm of the couch, cold feet in John’s lap.  He’d chosen not to see this move as an act of aggression, despite his life-long disdain for that particular extremity.  Sherlock likely hasn’t deduced his abhorrence of feet on or around his person.  It simply hasn’t come up.  Bit out of character for the man to </span>
  <em>
    <span>actually</span>
  </em>
  <span> use John as a piece of furniture (jokes about John’s jumpers resembling an armchair that his grandmother had owned in 1983 aside) but he never did quite grasp the concept of personal space.  So John ignores him.  But Sherlock doesn’t like to be ignored.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What exactly is your plan here?”  He’s followed John down the couch, body sliding forward, head dropping from the armrest onto the cushion.  One set of toes wedged once more beneath the warmth of John’s thigh and the other pressed into his hip, poking him in the side.  “Seeing what you can get away with?  Some sort of experiment?”  Sherlock says nothing, only stares down his torso at John, gauging his reaction as his toes continue to prod at the soft flesh of his waist.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Sherlock,”</span>
  </em>
  <span>  John’s had about enough of that.  He shoves at his legs, dislodging him with a glare.  “I don’t like </span>
  <em>
    <span>feet.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  Not even yours.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Especially</span>
  </em>
  <span> not yours.”  Sherlock sits up, brows pinched in confusion.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I didn’t realize,”  He says, then spins around and falls back, head in John’s lap.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Christ,”  John huffs, turning back to the game show he’d been pretending to watch on the telly.  No chance it’ll hold his attention now that he’s got a lap full of his bored, obnoxious bastard of a best friend.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>This isn’t something that they do.  John has accepted that he’s raising his daughter with this man—that he will likely spend the rest of his life with him in this platonic partnership they've built over the last couple of years.  He’s stopped bothering to deny that they’re a couple—they </span>
  <em>
    <span>are,</span>
  </em>
  <span> in their own way.  They’ve managed to heal together, to recognize that they need each other, have learned to communicate and have even found small ways to show their mutual adoration.  It’s all really quite fine.  Has been for awhile now.  But all that being said—they don’t lounge about the house lying in each others’ laps.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>John looks down at Sherlock.  His eyes are closed, arms wrapped tightly around his own torso as if he were keeping himself from crumbling apart.  John studies the taut lines of his shoulders, notes the tension there.  He watches the rise and fall of his chest for long moments, exhalations slowing gradually as he slips into some version of slumber.  Without much thought, John finds his fingers pulling lightly through curls, thumb brushing gently across a slightly furrowed brow, smoothing out the creases.  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock shifts, sighing and turning inward, face pressed into the wool of John’s jumper, arms still hugging his own slim frame.  John can feel his heart crack at the sight of him like this—only slightly—a small sliver in an otherwise perfectly healthy and whole organ.  But it’s enough.  Enough to let slip a slow stream of something that he had carefully barricaded there long ago.  He lets his fingers continue to card through Sherlock’s hair, wondering absently what brought this on and how he’s going to stem this new flow of unguarded emotion.  Sherlock stirs, bringing one hand up to tuck behind John’s back in a near-embrace.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m tired, John,”  He murmurs.  Barely a whisper.  John swallows, feeling irrationally helpless.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I can see that,”  He responds quietly, tracing an eyebrow with the pad of his thumb.  “Sleep, then,”  He can hear the crack in his own voice—a perfect match for the one in his chest.  He hopes that Sherlock won’t notice, won’t try to pick it all apart.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Not what I meant,”  He rumbles, as he drifts off and away, leaving John alone in wakefulness to wonder what the hell had just happened.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>◒</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Two</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Heads up that a (minor?  medium?) character death is sort of nonchalantly mentioned in this chapter.  It's something that happened awhile back in this timeline and is relevant to the plot.  Will be explored a bit more in future chapters.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>◓</p><p> </p><p>John awakens with a start, inhaling deeply and gradually taking in his surroundings.  Still on the couch.  Right.  He hadn’t wanted to wake Sherlock, and clearly he’d eventually surrendered to sleep himself.  He’s slipped down, half lying on his side with his head propped up, both arms wrapped tightly around the too-thin chest of the man he’s effectively spooning.  <em> Christ. </em>  Right on cue, Sherlock rolls onto his back, glancing at John, who quickly pulls back the arm that isn’t smashed beneath a gangly torso.</p><p> </p><p>“Sorry,”  He mumbles, feeling unbearably awkward.  Sherlock just stares at him, his gaze piercing as ever, as though he can see straight through the ramshackle armour John has slapped over his fractured heart.</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t be,”  He says, finally.  They quietly watch each other for much too long, John’s mind spinning, trying to think of something—anything—to say that will break this odd tension,  There’s something present in Sherlock’s eyes that John can’t quite define.  Before he has a chance to mutter anything of substance, Sherlock has leapt up, striding straight down the hall and slamming the door to the loo.  Right then.</p><p> </p><p>The sun has fully risen, casting an optimistic glow about the flat that perfectly contradicts the sinking feeling in John’s gut.  He sits in silence, waiting for Sherlock to emerge—but it’s Rosie who makes herself known first, clambering down the stairs from their shared room.</p><p> </p><p>“Morning, kid,”  John grins as she shuffles toward the couch, squinting against the sunlight and crawling up to sit beside him.  He pulls her in and drops a kiss onto unruly blonde curls.  “Hungry?  What do you think, waffles?”  An old Belgian waffle iron is one of the many things they’d inherited from Mrs. Hudson, and in the six months since her death it’s become a bit of a weekly tradition.  It began, he thinks, as a small way to honour her memory—but now it’s just something that Rosie is guaranteed to actually eat.</p><p> </p><p><em>“Yeah,”  </em>She chimes enthusiastically, then immediately yawns, stretching her arms upward, hands balled into tiny fists.  “With honey.”</p><p> </p><p>“Obviously,”  Sherlock strides back into the living room, freshly showered and fully dressed, making a beeline for Rosie and scooping her into his arms.  “As if there were another way to eat waffles,”  She giggles, hugging his neck and kissing his cheek, then squirms until he sets her carefully on the floor.  Something pleasant lurches in John’s chest, as it often does when he’s faced with the evidence of how head-over-heels his daughter is for his best friend.</p><p> </p><p>Most of his feelings toward Sherlock over the past few years have involved an overwhelming measure of gratitude and a quiet respect.  He loves the man, sure—but he’s known that almost from the start—and that particular sentiment (and his inability to fully accept it) has caused more pain than anything else.  </p><p> </p><p>But when he sees Sherlock in action as the extraordinary parent and unwaveringly dependable friend that he has become, he could weep with gratitude over being allowed to keep him in his life.  For whatever unfathomable reason, Sherlock had decided that John was worth the trouble of growing up, evolving together and working through their shared demons.  And for that, John regularly counts his lucky stars.</p><p> </p><p>◒</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Three</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>aNgSt.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>◓</p><p> </p><p>After breakfast, the three of them meander down Baker Street toward the park.  Rosie bolts ahead the moment she spots her favourite slide—she’s becoming more terrifyingly independent each day.  John takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, stopping himself from shouting after her.  He’s trying to let go, a bit—to hover less, to teach her how to make her way in the world without one of them always holding her hand.  Sherlock is better at guiding without smothering, though he still frets.  He clearly believes that he hides it well, but John sees how he worries about her.  They don’t live a particularly conventional life, and they both fear the day that someone decides to use their daughter against them.</p><p> </p><p>They’d spent the last four days on a particularly gruesome case—a string of murders that left John emotionally exhausted and brought his faith in humanity down to an all time low.  He's still a bit out of sorts today.  Sherlock, however, was as enthusiastic as ever—refusing sleep and sustenance and bouncing off the bloody walls, brilliance seeping from every pore.  He’d solved the case late yesterday afternoon, and they’d gone straight from the Yard to Molly and Greg’s flat to pick up Rosie—then home.  </p><p> </p><p>Now that he thinks about it, Sherlock’s odd behaviour last night was surely the result of sleep deprivation and a post-case crash.  That—John hopes—explains that.  Any other theory that may have occurred to him would mean that things aren’t quite as <em> fine </em> as he’d like to believe.</p><p> </p><p>They tend to take fewer cases these days.  John stopped accepting shifts at the clinic last year in order to spend more time with Rosie and to be more available for Sherlock.  He was growing rather weary of the white walls and antiseptic scent that he could never seem to shake, anyway.  So when it had finally occurred to him that he spent every minute of every day wishing he were with them, he put in his notice immediately.  </p><p> </p><p>Right away they’d come to some unspoken agreement to take a few days—often a week—off from the work after each of the more time consuming cases.  Exceptions are made for particularly interesting crimes, of course, but otherwise Sherlock finds less invasive things to occupy his mind—usually scouring his email and working on simpler cases from home, or picking through Lestrade’s seemingly endless supply of cold case files.  He can still be found at the morgue every now and then, and there’s almost always an experiment in progress at the flat.  But mostly, he gives his attention to the two of them.  </p><p> </p><p>That is, when he hasn’t vanished for three days without warning like he’d done last month.  But John had chosen to let that go, so—</p><p> </p><p>He’s pulled gently from his thoughts by long fingers on his shoulder.  When he meets Sherlock’s gaze, he knows immediately that he’d be wise to steel himself and get his emotions in check.</p><p> </p><p>“Can we talk?”  Sherlock’s voice is low, eyes drifting to Rosie—who’s found a new friend and is playing in the sand not three metres away—then to a bench to their right.  John nods and follows him, taking a seat and holding his breath.  “Last night—“</p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry,”  John blurts, before he can stop himself.  He can’t have this conversation again, especially not now that his defenses have crumbled—not now that he’s experienced a version of Sherlock that is comfortable being close to him.  It was too painful the first time they’d gone through it, and it had taken John nearly a year to get back to this point—for things to be <em> fine. </em>  Sherlock stares back at him, eyes narrowing.</p><p> </p><p>“What are you apologizing for, exactly?”</p><p> </p><p>“I know that you don’t—I shouldn’t have—“</p><p> </p><p>“Stop,”  Sherlock holds up a hand, unnecessarily.  That baritone alone will stop John in his tracks—a power John’s own voice seems to have over Sherlock as well, which has proven rather useful.  “John—that isn’t—“  He cuts himself off and sighs, watching John intently.  “I—bought a house.  I wanted to tell you last night.  But instead I—anyway, I’ve purchased a home.”  He rattles this off so quickly, it’s difficult to soak it all in.</p><p> </p><p>John blinks, swallowing thickly and trying to process this sharp turn and the words that have just been tossed at him without preamble.  </p><p> </p><p>“You—“</p><p> </p><p>“A cottage.  Nothing too large or obnoxious—three bedrooms, two baths, a decent back garden—“</p><p> </p><p>“You—are you leaving London?”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s in London, of course.  I haven’t gone completely mad.  Chiswick, actually.  We can go see it today if you’d like,”  John shakes his head, staring unseeingly at his feet.  What is <em> happening? </em>   He’s moving out, then?  Clearly this has been in the works for quite some time if he’s already bought the bloody place.  John feels suddenly on the verge of tears—emotions at war—betrayal, anger, grief.  Sherlock had said last night that he was <em> tired. </em>  Why hadn’t the bastard spoken up sooner if he was unhappy with their life together?</p><p> </p><p>“Why?”  His voice sounds small, broken.  God, this would be embarrassing if he gave a damn about such a thing right now.  Sherlock’s features are pinched in confusion when John chances a glance up at him.</p><p> </p><p>“Practicality, John.  I thought—well Rosie will be needing her own space soon.  You can’t share forever, and she’s nearly four.”  </p><p> </p><p>He isn’t wrong.  Rationally John knows this—has known it.  If he’s honest with himself, when he’d moved back into 221B after the dust had settled three years ago, he’d hoped that at some point he and Sherlock wouldn’t have a need for separate bedrooms.  Of course those dreams had all come crashing down when they’d had <em> that </em> conversation—and John hasn’t allowed himself to think much about the practicality of it all since.</p><p> </p><p>Apparently Sherlock has taken things into his own hands, and his solution is—to leave.</p><p> </p><p>“I need to—can you get Rosie?  I’ll meet you back at the flat,”  John stands abruptly and begins to walk away, suddenly needing to be anywhere but here, when Sherlock grabs his arm.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re upset with me,”  John spins around, ready to spit words he’ll later regret, but when he sees Sherlock’s face he lets his mouth snap shut.  The man looks nearly frantic.  “We’d agreed not to walk away during important conversations, John.  <em> Please,” </em>   Christ, he’d forgotten about that.  When was the last time they’d had an <em> important conversation? </em>  They’ve hardly a need to speak at all anymore, as in sync as they’ve become.  Their life has become a practiced dance.  The most interesting thing that’s happened in months was Sherlock stabbing him in the side with his toes.  And, incidentally, what followed had been the most physical contact John has had with an adult member of the human race in, well, years.  Nearly four years, if we’re being honest—</p><p> </p><p>His thoughts are clearly attempting to run rampant now, trying to avoid the situation at hand.  He takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly.  One of the calming techniques Ella had burned into his brain all those years ago—possibly the only thing he took away from those sessions.</p><p> </p><p>“I just don’t understand,”  He says evenly.  “Why didn’t you talk to me about this?”</p><p> </p><p>“I suppose I—I’m sorry—“  Sherlock’s brow is still charmingly furrowed.  He obviously doesn’t understand this reaction.  John sighs.  “I thought it would be—good.”</p><p> </p><p>“You thought that you’d make a decision like this without asking how I felt about it?  I know that you don’t—you don’t <em> owe </em> us anything, Sherlock.  But I thought that we were in this together.  I thought we’d established that a long time ago,”  John can feel the tears welling up now.  He turns away, watches Rosie carefully drawing shapes in the sand with a stick.  </p><p> </p><p>It’s like everything he’s spent the past few years thanking the heavens for is about to be ripped away from him.  He knows that he’s being a bit dramatic—Sherlock isn’t actually walking away from them—but it certainly feels that way now.</p><p> </p><p>“We are.  Of course we are,”  John can’t meet his eyes.  He wants to understand, needs further explanation.  He wants to know why removing himself from the equation was Sherlock’s grand solution.  “I’m sorry, John,”  Is all he says.</p><p> </p><p>◒</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>¯\_(ツ)_/¯</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Four</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>◓</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m going to see if I can get her to lie down for a bit,”  John scoops Rosie up from the living room floor, where she’s fighting heavy eyelids in a futile attempt to complete the block tower she’s been building for the last hour.  “And then we should finish our conversation,”  He adds, a bit warily.  Sherlock looks up from where he’s sat at the kitchen table behind his microscope.  He sets down the slide he’s clutching and nods once, clearly surprised.  And he should be, really.  John has always been—and continues to be—avoidant of all confrontation, lest he devolve into the man he’s worked tirelessly to put behind him.  He hasn’t resorted to violence since that day at Smith’s hospital that had nearly shattered them both.  And his anger is, for the most part, under control.  This is, John thinks, because he flees when he feels his hackles begin to rise.  But that isn’t an option this time.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock had been the one to introduce open communication into their relationship.  He’s continued therapy over the past few years, finding it much more beneficial than John ever had, and has undeniably come a long way.  They’d had much to resolve—too much shared trauma and mutual resentment to ignore—and after a few joint therapy sessions and more than a few late night, fireside conversations, they found themselves on the other side of it all.  It feels like ancient history, now—like a series of events that had to occur in order for them to realize what they were to one another.  What they are.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>And what are we?</span>
  </em>
  <span>  John wonders, as he lumbers up the stairs, pushing open the door with his hip and setting Rosie gently on her tiny wooden bed.  She’s already asleep, and he drops down on his own impeccably tucked sheets, relieved to be able to skip the sleepy fuss he had expected.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>What are we?</span>
  </em>
  <span>  He knows what he thought they were—what they could become.  He knows how he feels and for how long he’s felt it.  And one quiet night he’d been brave and let Sherlock know, too.  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>For five blissful seconds Sherlock had returned the kiss, and John had felt as though the last of the loose fragments of their partnership were being pulled back into place.  He felt like he was standing on the edge of something massive—as if he could take a single step and fall happily into oblivion.  Instead, he’d been yanked back to reality, Sherlock backing away and looking nothing short of horrified.  John had sat and listened, then.  Nodded as his best friend told him in no uncertain terms that he could not do this.  That they could not be this.  He had been gentle and kind, which had made it nearly unbearable to hear.  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>John had agreed, apologized, promised that it wouldn’t damage their relationship.  Promised it was fine, all fine.  Then he’d spent months of his life in a trance, laying bricks between his ribs, forging steel walls behind them, and filling in the gaps with a thick coat of denial.  And things had been fine.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>◒</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Five</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>◓</p><p> </p><p>“Tell me,”  John sighs, taking a seat across from Sherlock at the kitchen table.  “Why leave Baker Street?  Why not come talk to me if you thought something had to change?”  He doesn’t really know how to have this conversation.  Doesn’t know the right questions to ask to get the answers he needs.  Hopefully repeatedly asking <em> why? </em> will suffice.  </p><p> </p><p>Sherlock has set his microscope aside on the worktop, cleared up the detritus that had littered the table just ten minutes ago.  Now he sits, hands folded in front of him, sharp grey eyes clocking John’s every move.</p><p> </p><p>“I thought you’d be pleased,”  He says simply.  “It seemed the most logical solution, so I went ahead and set it in motion.  I don’t understand why you’re upset, John.  Money obviously isn’t an issue.  And now that Mrs. Hudson—”  He abruptly falls silent, gaze drifting away from John, toward the teapot she’d insisted they keep when she’s gone.  They’ve never really talked about it, about her.  Sherlock certainly hasn’t dealt with it—at least not in a way John has been able to see.  They had known it was coming.  She’d been ill for ages, and she was not shy about discussing it.  But it hadn’t made it any easier to lose her.  John watches as Sherlock swallows, bows his head for a single moment and then meets John’s eyes again.  “There’s no reason to stay here.”</p><p> </p><p>John isn’t quite sure what to say to that.  He can think of two very good reasons to stay—two reasons who love him more than anything and want him around.  Two <em> people </em>who would be lost without him.  He’s trying to find a way not to be offended by Sherlock’s blunt statement, but he’s finding it rather impossible.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>No reason </em> to stay?  What about—”  <em> (me) </em>—no, can’t say that.  “What about Rosie?”</p><p> </p><p>“This is <em> for </em> Rosie, John.  She’s a child, she’ll adapt,”  John can no longer tamp down the frustration that’s been building, churning, rolling wildly in his gut.  Does he actually believe that having her own bloody room will make up for the absence of one of the people she loves most in the world?  He finds himself shoving the chair back and standing, fists clenched tightly at his sides.  He’s falling into old habits—mustn’t overreact—mustn’t walk away.</p><p> </p><p>“We need you,”  He chokes out.  “We can figure something out, you don’t have to—to leave,”  Tears are streaming down his cheeks now.  Can’t be helped.  He angrily swipes at his face, watching as Sherlock’s eyes grow wide in the same way they do when he’s found the clue that cracks the case.  His mouth slowly opens in a silent <em> oh, </em> and he slides gracefully back in his chair and stands too, taking a step toward John.</p><p><br/>
“You think I’m trying to leave you.  You believe I’ve done this because I’m not happy here,”  John swallows, unconsciously taking a step back.  Sherlock follows.  “You are an <em> idiot,” </em>  He reaches for John’s wrist, preventing him from retreating further.  “The house has a small office, you know.  Built in bookshelves.  I thought it would make a nice study—your own space to work on the blog—perhaps to write that book you’ve been yammering on about,”  He steps closer, barely a foot between them now.  John can only stare up at him in utter shock as he continues to tear apart the narrative John had convinced himself to be true.  “There’s a small stream that runs through the back garden.  I imagined we could show Watson how to catch tadpoles in the spring—teach her about metamorphosis,”  He rests his palms on John’s shoulders for a beat, then slides them down, grasping his biceps tightly.  “I want to build a life with you, John.  I thought we’d already begun to, but you seem to think there’s a chance I’ll walk away.  There isn’t,”  He peers down at John, who can feel the last of his defenses turn to dust behind his ribcage, heart squeezing and releasing as a fresh wave of tears spill from the corners of his eyes.  “We need space to grow—all three of us do.  We had our start here, but we’ve outgrown it, don’t you think?  It’s time to move on.”</p><p> </p><p>◒</p>
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<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Six</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>◓</p><p> </p><p>John isn’t quite sure how long he’s been sobbing in the snug circle of Sherlock’s arms.  At some point they’d sunk down to the floor, still clinging to one another—and really it’s getting a bit ridiculous now.  John pulls back slowly, immensely relieved, but mostly feeling like a proper fool.  He lets himself drop from his kneeling position, arse right on the probably-filthy kitchen floor.  He leans back against a cupboard and determinedly does <em> not </em> meet Sherlock’s inquiring eye.</p><p> </p><p>“John,”  Sherlock shifts back and sits on the floor beside him.  “This is a problem,”  Scowling stubbornly at his feet, John says nothing for a long moment.  He <em> knows </em> that it’s a problem.  He knows that he’d been mad to question Sherlock’s loyalty at this point.  Irrational.  The man has proven time and time again that he isn’t going anywhere, and yet—</p><p> </p><p>“I know,” John says quietly.</p><p> </p><p>“How is it that after all these years, the first conclusion you jump to is that I must be moving on without you?  Either I’ve failed entirely at showing you how essential you are, or there’s something else going on here that I’m unaware of.”</p><p> </p><p>“You haven’t—”  Fingertips placed gently on John’s jaw guide him to meet Sherlock’s eyes at last.  He sighs, seeing immense concern in those sharp grey orbs.  “You haven’t failed, Sherlock.  You haven’t failed us in any way.  This is—me.  This is one of the lovely lasting effects of trauma.  We’ve talked about it, you know that it’s never going to leave me entirely.  I’ve forgiven you, and I don’t really even think about it anymore—but the fact that you’d gone and planned all of this without involving me at all—”  He pauses, trying his damndest not to sound accusatory.  “Irrational as it may be, it hadn’t even occurred to me that you were trying to plan a future for us.  I thought that you were going off on your own because you felt that you had to,”  John swallows, hoping that this explanation isn’t cruel.  “Again.”</p><p> </p><p>Bit cruel.</p><p> </p><p>“Ah,”  Sherlock drops his hand from where it had lingered cupping John’s jawline.  “I see.”</p><p> </p><p>“We don’t need to get into all this again.  It isn’t that I don’t trust you, it’s that the feeling of abruptly losing you is never going to fully leave me,”  In all honesty, watching Sherlock leap from a building and out of his life for two years was the worst thing that’s ever happened to him.  There were bound to be lasting effects, even now that they’ve fought their way past it and built a new foundation.  John shrugs apologetically.  “Just had a bit of a panic,”  He tries for a smile, half succeeding.  He’s quite ready to be finished with this conversation.  Relief is now the dominant emotion, flooding his chest, his limbs, making him feel lighter than he has in ages—hope and excitement beginning to make themselves known.  “Got a bit wobbly,”  He grins when Sherlock rolls his eyes.  “Sorry I cried all over your posh shirt.”</p><p> </p><p>“I love you,”  Sherlock’s voice is sure, steady.  John feels his heart lurch as his eyebrows shoot up, mouth slightly agape.   “I love you, John.  You know that, I hope,”  He does know, but that doesn’t make hearing it spoken aloud any less alarming.  “If I begin apologizing for the past you’ll only get upset with me,”  He gives John a small smile.  It’s true.  They’re far beyond needing apologies.  “But I do understand.  There are things that—I—”  He shakes his head once.  “I should have spoken with you about this.  In hindsight, that is painfully obvious.  I <em> am </em> sorry,”  He looks it, too.  Looks downright remorseful.  John takes pity on him.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s an incredible thing you’ve done, Sherlock.  Bit of a shock, but—good—I think,”  He leans into Sherlock’s shoulder.  “Let’s go see the place tonight, yeah?  I can’t bloody wait.”</p><p> </p><p>◒</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Seven</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>◓</p><p> </p><p>John is perched restlessly in the back of a cab, knee bouncing, buzzing with nervous energy and barely contained excitement.  He watches Sherlock, sitting on his left with Rosie, patiently quizzing her on the meaning of each traffic sign that they pass.  She hasn’t gotten a single one right—he’s pretty sure this is the first time in her three-and-a-half years that she’s even noticed such signs exist—but Sherlock just calmly explains what the symbols represent in his deep, familiar rumble.</p><p> </p><p>John knows that he would follow Sherlock anywhere.  He knows full well that he would walk with him to the ends of the bloody Earth.  Still, he’s managed to work himself into a bit of a tizzy while pondering the sort of home the man might deem appropriate to raise a child in.  He can’t help but recall everything about 221B that really wasn’t working anymore—all of the things he’d been ignoring, had always ignored, that Sherlock never did see as a problem.  </p><p> </p><p>He wonders if this new house will be safe for their precocious, insatiably curious daughter.  Will Sherlock have already converted the kitchen into his personal laboratory?  Will the water heater be ever unreliable and the staircase just a bit too steep?  Will they need to spend years renovating—is the place even fit for human life?  Why hadn’t he asked a single question?  For all he knows, Sherlock could have bought a bloody pirate ship and dropped it on a plot of land in the middle of Chiswick.  <em> No, </em> John thinks.  <em> He’d said it was a cottage.  Three bedrooms.  Two baths.  A proper home. </em></p><p> </p><p>“Stop fretting,”  Sherlock says quietly as Rosie babbles on, pulling John from his implausible musings.  “You have such little faith in me, John,”  His face breaks into a wicked smirk as he says it, which does nothing to stop the carousel of unconventional housing images that’s spinning wildly through John’s head.  Still, he grins helplessly back.  He really can’t shake the sense of immense possibility that’s been lingering around them all afternoon.</p><p> </p><p>Whatever this place may be, the fact that it even exists is hugely significant for the three of them.  This is the grandest of gestures.  A promise, a pledge.  And the thought of that makes John feel as though his skin is too tight, as though he’s full-to-bursting with emotion that he cannot express—because he isn’t allowed to grab Sherlock and kiss him until his knees give out.  He cannot pour all of this excess affection into the man it belongs to, the one who’s put it there in the first place—</p><p> </p><p>“Here we are,”  Sherlock alerts them as the cab rolls to a stop in front of...well—a weathered stone wall.  And...some birch trees peeking out from behind it.  Maybe an elm or two in the mix.  A few tall bushes of some sort, that look like they may flower at some later point in the season.  They’re in a residential neighborhood, sure, but they seem to have pulled up in front of the one lot with no kerb appeal to speak of.  The surrounding homes are a fairly eclectic mix—a large, modernized stone cottage, multiple grand looking brick structures—”Constructed in the nineteenth century,”  Sherlock supplies helpfully, glancing around with a look of mild distaste at the towering architecture.  “Come along,”  He takes Rosie’s hand and strides toward a tall iron gate embedded in the stone wall, beside what appears to be a red brick driveway leading to god knows where.</p><p> </p><p>Sherlock whips his set of keys from his pocket, several new ones now present on the simple ring he carries with him.  When the gate swings open, John and Rosie follow him through.  There’s a short pathway made of the same red brick as the drive, and trees towering over them on all sides, covering the entire space in cool shade.  Directly ahead is a cottage—<em> their </em> cottage—entirely hidden from the street by the small forest that seems to make up the front garden.  John lets his eyes roam, taking it all in.  Two stories, four large, paned windows—two on each floor.  The house is made of dark, weathered stone in the same style as the surrounding wall, and sports a thatch roof covered almost entirely in lush green ivy.  The arched front door is made of heavy wood with simple, hand-carved floral patterns within six inlaid squares and a half circle up top.  It had been painted blue at some point, but the colour has faded almost completely, leaving it looking well-loved, if a bit cheerless.</p><p> </p><p>John feels the weight of a familiar gaze and turns to find Sherlock watching him carefully as he encounters their new home for the first time.  Rosie stands at his side, silently looking around, eyes wide—gaze halting on a patch of bright English bluebells growing beneath a window to their left.  John meets Sherlock’s eye and gives him a small smile.</p><p> </p><p>“This place reminded me of you the moment I saw it, you know,”  Sherlock says, unlocking the front door.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh?  Why’s that, then?”</p><p> </p><p>“Not much to look at, at first glance,” He shoots John his patented smirk, hand still on the doorknob.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh thanks so much,” John huffs, rolling his eyes and trying to suppress a grin.  He thinks the place is lovely, actually, the bastard.</p><p> </p><p>“Mm.  But once you go a bit deeper—“ He flings open the door, ever the drama queen, and steps aside to allow them in.</p><p><br/>
“Oh my <em> god,” </em>  John says, as he closes the heavy door behind him.</p><p> </p><p>◒</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Eight</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>◓</p><p> </p><p>He takes a moment, leaning against the solid wood at his back—completely, utterly overwhelmed.  Rosie appears at his side, excitedly tugging at his sleeve until he drops his hand for her to hold onto.</p><p> </p><p>The cottage is, in a word, <em> stunning. </em> The door opens straight into the main living area, bright and expansive—hundreds of squares of coloured glass form two massive windows that sit high on the back wall, casting their kaleidoscopic light across the warm wooden floors.  Directly below them sit two even larger paned windows that show off the flowering back garden, forming an explosion of colour when you walk through the door.  </p><p> </p><p>His gaze drifts upward, taking in the vaulted ceiling, painted white and slanting straight up past the lofted second floor, dark wooden support beams following its slope.  A cast iron spiral staircase stands toward the back of the large room, off to their right.  John tracks its path to the upper level, where it meets a thick wooden banister that spans the length of the loft.</p><p> </p><p>Below the loft is a small, modern loo and just beside it a large, open kitchen—tall cupboards stained a deep burgundy lining two of the walls.  Beneath them is a concrete worktop, brushed copper stove and refrigerator, and an absurdly large butcher block island in the center of it all.</p><p> </p><p>“The previous owners left it behind,”  Sherlock says without preamble, startling John out of his stunned observations.  “With a bit of convincing.  Evidently they’d gotten it from a butcher shop that had been shut down after being the site of a gruesome murder,”  He explains with unrestrained glee.  John stares at the slab of wood—nearly two feet thick and twice as wide in both directions.  It sits on four short, sturdy legs, its surface marred with many deep indentations—lines and grooves formed from decades of slicing and hacking away at cuts of meat.  Apparently, some of it of the human variety.  He smiles internally at the thought of Sherlock hearing that tale and doing whatever it took to acquire the piece.  “They allowed me to purchase these as well,”  He adds, nodding toward the two brown leather chesterfields that sit perpendicular to one another in front of an enormous red brick fireplace that sprawls across the opposite wall.  John walks slowly toward the sofas, tugging Rosie along with him.  He runs his palm over the soft leather, feeling a bit dazed and dropping Rosie’s hand as she walks around to the front and climbs up onto the cushion.  “I thought they quite suited us,”  Sherlock says, approaching to stand at John’s side.  “And our chairs will go nicely just here,”  He gestures toward the empty space, clearly left intentionally to allow their beloved chairs to be placed fireside.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s—”  John sounds shattered, he realizes.  He clears his throat, meeting Sherlock’s eyes for the first time since they’d walked through the door.  He finds himself at a complete loss for words.</p><p> </p><p>“Is it all right?”  Sherlock asks, looking mildly worried.  John lets out a burst of laughter, face immediately crumpling beneath the waves of emotion roaring through him—eyes suddenly stinging.  “Are you going to cry again?”  Sherlock’s tone is so serious, his expression so concerned.  John giggles, grabbing for his hand.</p><p> </p><p>“Might do, yeah.  Problem?”  He squeezes Sherlock’s fingers tightly, then lets them go, hand falling to his side.  “It’s perfect, Sherlock.  God, it’s ridiculously, impossibly perfect,”  He shakes his head in a futile attempt to hide the foolish smile that’s stretched across his face.  “What do you think, kid?”  He turns to Rosie, who’s kneeling on the sofa, arms folded over the back, watching them intently.</p><p> </p><p>“I want to see the garden,”  She beams.</p><p> </p><p>◒</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Nine</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>◓</p><p> </p><p>“All right, then,”  John would really rather explore the rest of the house before venturing back outdoors, but he knows better than to argue with his offspring when there are flowers to smell.  “Lead the way,”  She leaps down from the sofa and marches back toward the kitchen, where there’s a set of French doors leading out back.  </p><p> </p><p>John moves to follow and nearly trips over his own feet in surprise when Sherlock clumsily grasps his hand, tangling their fingers together.  His expression is intense—determined—and he remains silent when faced with John’s questioning look.  </p><p> </p><p>So John just holds on, something in his chest squeezing pleasantly as they step over the threshold, digits entwined.</p><p> </p><p>Something has clearly shifted between them in the last twenty four hours.  It seems that Sherlock has come to the conclusion that small displays of affection are now acceptable.  John hasn’t the faintest idea what caused such a sudden deviation from their usual careful distance, but he isn’t about to complain.  He cannot remember a time when he didn’t want this.</p><p> </p><p>The moment they step outside onto another red brick pathway, Sherlock drags him to the left toward a large garage—clearly built ages after the rest of the cottage, which looks like it was plucked right out of the Irish countryside. </p><p> </p><p>John glances around the garden and spots Rosie, who has drifted over to a small wooden greenhouse that appears to have been constructed from a hodgepodge of old windows.  There are flowers <em> everywhere— </em>massive rose bushes in a variety of colours, patches of delphinium, a row of hydrangea bushes beside the greenhouse, and seemingly endless other varieties sprawling across the yard that John can’t name.  He’s just registered the presence of the small creek that Sherlock had mentioned when Rosie appears at his side clutching a bunch of sweet peas, their scent instantly bringing him back to the garden his mum kept in his youth.</p><p> </p><p>“Come<em> on, </em> John.  You haven’t seen the best part,”  Sherlock’s tone is all petulant impatience as he bounces slightly on the balls of his feet.  John and Rosie share a grin and follow him through the door to the garage.  The walls of the large open space are lined with tidy rows of empty shelving.  There’s a simple wooden door on the back wall, a proper garage door on the front, and a single rather difficult-to-miss object in the centre of the room.</p><p> </p><p>“Is that—”</p><p> </p><p>“Thought it may come in handy.”</p><p> </p><p>“A <em> car?” </em></p><p> </p><p>“It’s a Land Rover, John,”  Sherlock huffs, eyebrows raised.  “A restored 1992 Defender in Coniston Green.  Idiotic name for a colour—Coniston isn’t any greener than the rest of England—but I quite like it.  It was my father’s, and I had it, you know—”  He flaps his hand carelessly toward the vehicle.  “Fixed up.  You can take it to the shops, or—wherever it is that you go when you’re not in my presence.  But this isn’t what I wanted to show you,”  He smirks, tugging on John’s hand and leading them toward the lone door on the back wall.  </p><p> </p><p>When he flings it open, they step through to find a really <em> quite </em> large room—clearly a workshop of some sort in a past life.  The back and left walls are lined with low cabinets topped with well-worn concrete worktops, similar to those in the kitchen.  There’s a large metal sink built in on the far left.  Beside it sits a brand new, rather clinical looking refrigerator—Sherlock’s own addition, surely.  </p><p> </p><p>Above the worktop are two rows of open shelving, spanning the back wall on either side of the wide window that looks out at a cluster of birch trees.  In the centre of the room sits a massive steel desk and an old leather-upholstered shop stool.  John notes the wheels and can easily imagine Sherlock whizzing across the room from the desk to the sink, possibly because he’s managed to set himself on fire (again).</p><p> </p><p>“You’ve gone and found yourself a proper laboratory,”  He breathes, his grin growing painfully wide as he takes it all in.  “This is incredible, Sherlock, really,”  He tightens his grip on Sherlock’s hand, feeling that familiar wave of affection and gratitude so often triggered by the man’s actions these days.  While this is surely in part a selfish endeavor, it is also a secluded space where Sherlock can do whatever he damn well pleases—stockpile this very <em> separate </em> fridge with body parts, leave mould cultures out on the worktop for years on end—and they can easily keep Rosie from ever setting foot inside.  He’s given John some peace of mind.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, well,”  He mutters, feigning nonchalance.  “It was time.”</p><p> </p><p>∙</p><p> </p><p>They head back outside, Rosie making a beeline for the water.  The narrow creek runs just behind the masses of colourful flora—barely a metre wide and quite shallow—with nothing but trees visible on the other side.  The brick path splits at the back door, curving to the left toward the garage as well as straight ahead to the water, where it blooms into a small round patio of sorts.  This is where they come to a stop, watching Rosie drop down to sit cross-legged at the edge of the creek, throwing pebbles and observing with fascination the way the water ripples outward and fades away.</p><p> </p><p>Sherlock carefully disentangles their fingers, letting go and standing quietly at John’s side.  John immediately and irrationally feels as though he’s just lost something precious—like they’ve just unceremoniously broken the link he’d been longing for, for longer than he can recall.  He knows rationally that he can’t cling to Sherlock indefinitely.  Even if this is something that they <em> do </em> now, he’d better get used to it coming in small doses.  Sherlock has never been demonstrative with anyone but Rosie, and it’s utterly ridiculous to expect that to change.  So instead of reaching out and reclaiming the point of contact, he wipes his (actually rather sweaty) hand on his trousers.</p><p> </p><p>Silence falls over them, the moment stretching out a bit uncomfortably, with only the quiet splash of Rosie’s pebbles to interrupt the gradually building tension.  John is sure that whatever the source of this unrest may be, it isn’t him.  He happens to be beyond thrilled with this place, with this day, with the two people in his immediate vicinity—But he can feel it.  And it’s growing impossible to ignore.</p><p> </p><p>When he looks up at Sherlock, John finds mesmeric grey eyes already fixed on him.  He has to swallow around the lump rapidly forming in his throat when he sees what’s lurking in the depths of that gaze.  The unguarded affection on display is magnetic, thrilling—John feels an overwhelming pull toward the man in front of him—an immense swell of something new rising unbidden in his chest.  This moment feels profound—teeming with possibility.  John stares back, trying desperately to convey how he feels right now and <em> always </em>—what this means to him—what all of this means.  </p><p> </p><p>Sherlock moves abruptly, each palm rising up to hold John’s face gently between them.  John peers helplessly back up at him, heart racing perilously, feeling splayed open and pinned in place, waiting.  He watches Sherlock’s eyes fall closed, suddenly frozen, as though overwhelmed—as though he doesn’t quite know what to do with this, doesn’t know what to do with <em> them. </em>   His hands slide back to the nape of John’s neck, pause for a lingering second, then pull him in.  John goes easily, happily, moulding himself against Sherlock’s chest—wishing he could sink entirely into him, be <em> consumed </em> by him, really—eliminate this hesitance, this distance that still exists between them.</p><p> </p><p>He rests his hands tentatively on the small of Sherlock’s back, and when he’s met with no resistance, tightens his arms into a proper embrace.  He buries his face and sighs against soft silk.  He allows himself to feel some sort of relief—takes the time to appreciate the depth of this gesture, the profundity of this, of the intimacy Sherlock is suddenly seeking.</p><p> </p><p>For a fleeting moment he was certain that Sherlock was going to kiss him.  But this is nice, too.</p><p> </p><p>◒</p>
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<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Ten</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>◓</p><p> </p><p>“I’ve ordered a slide,”  John only half registers this rather odd statement as he follows Rosie up the staircase, keeping an eye on her for any signs of struggle on the ancient cast iron steps.  </p><p> </p><p>His mind is still back by the creek, if he’s being honest—his muscles still humming with the sensation of being wrapped around his best friend, being allowed into his space so wholly.  Whatever that was, it was new for them.  They’ve embraced before, sure, but not like that.  This time was intentional.  A statement.  Each time in the past that Sherlock had permitted such a thing, John had been mid-breakdown—a perfect example being the scene in the kitchen earlier today.  He can think of just one other time when Sherlock had willingly hugged him, and he was a blubbering mess on that horrible occasion as well.  And then there was the wedding—but that—he tries not to think about that.</p><p> </p><p>“You—what?”</p><p> </p><p>“A slide,”  Sherlock is just behind him.  John can feel a hint of breath on his neck and the heat of him at his back as they slowly spiral their way upward at a pace set by a clumsy three year old.  He’s still not grasping how playground equipment fits into the conversation.  Bit distracted, to be frank.</p><p> </p><p>“I—care to elaborate?”  He feels Sherlock sigh, clearly annoyed that John can’t quite follow his grand leap in subject matter.</p><p> </p><p>“An antique cast iron spiral staircase isn’t exactly ideal for a small child,”  He explains with carefully contained irritation.  John grins to himself.  “I’d considered replacing it with something more standard, but I rather like it—and I knew you would as well,”  Sherlock’s right, he thinks it’s bloody brilliant.  He’d certainly never imagined that he’d live in a space with a <em> spiral staircase. </em>  “She’s done just fine climbing up,”  He nods down at Rosie as they reach the loft without incident.  “Not much danger of falling, and she’ll adapt quickly.  But I suspect descending will be another matter entirely,”  He looks pointedly at the stairs, which do look rather ominous from this angle.  “And so—I’ve ordered a slide.”</p><p> </p><p>“For inside?”  Rosie squeaks, eyes going comically wide.</p><p> </p><p>“Indeed,”  Sherlock brushes a hand through her mop of curls.  “We’ve got plenty of space, and it’s the most logical solution,”  John isn’t too sure about that, but he’s not exactly opposed to it either.  Everything about this place is entirely mad—may as well throw a slide into the mix.  “It’s scheduled to be installed day after tomorrow.  Until then, you’re not to use the stairs without your daddy or me.  Understood?”  He looks down his nose at Rosie, his resemblance to Mycroft rather startling when he uses this tactic on her.  John laughs quietly, causing them both to glance his way.</p><p> </p><p>“Brilliant,”  John breathes, another giggle bubbling up in his throat.  “Completely mad, but yeah—brilliant.”</p><p> </p><p>“Right then,”  Sherlock shoots him a small smile.  “On to the bedrooms.”</p><p> </p><p>The first room at the top of the landing is narrow but spacious, bright and warm—the back wall almost entirely taken over by one of the large paned windows that seem to be present in every room.  There’s a gray-cushioned window seat beneath this one, with built-in bookcases on each side.  John’s jaw drops as he realizes that what at first glance he’d assumed was an elaborate wallpaper is in fact a <em> mural. </em>  The walls are a very light pink, with large-scale foliage painted in sweeping strokes across them in various shades of green.  There are birds scattered throughout, bringing little pops of colour to the impressive panorama.  Everything is outlined with thin black brushstrokes, making it appear timeless—a permanent fixture.  Rosie has wasted no time exploring the sprawling scene, her stubby fingers tracing over the wing of a crane and trailing up over a grandiose fern.  When she turns back to the two of them, still hovering in the doorway, her tiny features are illuminated with eager elation.</p><p> </p><p>“Is this one mine?”</p><p> </p><p>“Would you like it to be?”  Sherlock responds, stepping into the room and leaning against the wall.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes,”  She breathes, looking around in candid awe—eyes halting on a door to the right, painted a darker shade of pink.  She glances back at Sherlock, who nods, watching as she heads over to open it.  Expecting a closet, John is struck a bit dumb when they enter another narrow room, this one painted a deep emerald green with a similar mural woven over its walls—this time the leaves are in tints of pink, massive flowers threaded amongst them in shades of sea green and burgundy—and instead of birds there are hundreds of <em> bees. </em>  Little frenzied bursts of yellow throughout, making the room itself feel alive.</p><p> </p><p>“Wow,”  John finds himself drifting across the room to another window, which looks out at a colossal weeping willow that evidently resides on the side of the house.  He lets his eyes roam over the room, imagining Rosie growing up here, in this creatively charged space.  Someone, at some point in time, put their whole heart into this—and it’s really rather inspiring.  “It’s terribly beautiful,”  He says quietly.  A smile blooms across Sherlock’s face when their eyes meet.</p><p> </p><p>“An artist lived here,”  He says, absent-mindedly tracing the outline of a fluttering wing.  “She used these rooms as her studio.  This one is my favourite,”  John knows of Sherlock’s love of bees.  Perhaps someday they’ll have real ones, once Rosie is grown.  The reality of that thought hits John like a tidal wave—that could actually <em> happen. </em>   They really have a <em> someday, </em> now—they have a <em> forever, </em> if they want it.  And they do, don’t they?  <em> Yes, </em> he thinks, heart flooding with warmth.  <em> Yes, they’ve both now made that clear. </em>  </p><p> </p><p>They have a forever and a someday, and eventually they’ll have <em> bees. </em></p><p> </p><p>◒</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Eleven</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>◓</p><p> </p><p>John has spent the last ten minutes sitting cross-legged on the window seat, leaning against a bookshelf and watching contentedly as Sherlock and Rosie make their way around the room, studying each bird artfully represented in pigment.  Sherlock dutifully supplies her with the common name, scientific name and a string of facts about each species they encounter.  He’s certain that Rosie is comprehending none of it—that she simply loves the sound of his voice and the feeling of being the sole recipient of his attention.  John knows that feeling well.</p><p> </p><p>He wonders now why they’ve never had a proper conversation about Sherlock’s role in her life.  It was his suggestion that the two of them return to Baker Street—he had to have known they were struggling—John always assumed that was why he’d asked.  Sherlock had stepped into a parental role immediately, seemingly happy to do so.  And—shocking absolutely everyone—he was a natural.</p><p> </p><p>Rosie has always just called him by his name (or, well, a jumbled, one-syllabled version of it that sounds more like <em> shuck </em> than anything)—John has never suggested she refer to him as something else.  He’s thought about it many times, but always ends up assuming Sherlock would be uncomfortable being called <em> daddy </em> or <em> papa </em> or especially <em> father. </em>   But lately he’s not so sure he was right to assume that at all.  For a long time now he’s thought of Rosie as <em> their </em> daughter.  Why shouldn’t she think of Sherlock as her dad?</p><p> </p><p>Observing them now—Sherlock crouched down on the floor, one arm around Rosie where she leans against his side and points at various objects of interest—he thinks that perhaps she already does.</p><p> </p><p>“Let’s move on, shall we?”  It takes John a moment to register that he’s being addressed.  He inhales deeply, sitting up straight and blinking himself back to reality.  “More to see.”</p><p> </p><p>“All right,”  John smiles as he stands, promising himself that he’ll find a way to bring this up with Sherlock later.  “Lead on.”</p><p> </p><p>∙</p><p> </p><p>The next room they attempt to explore is the second-floor loo, and they are immediately pushed back out the door by their full-bladdered progeny.  Now they lean side by side against the wall, staring out over the banister at the spectrum of light shining through stained glass windows, dousing the whole cottage in luminous colour as the sun begins to set.</p><p> </p><p>John wants to say something profound in this stolen moment.  He feels antsy and a bit overwhelmed by the emotional revolution the last twenty four hours have been.  He’s still desperately trying to wrap his head around everything Sherlock has given him, and he wishes he had words sufficient to express the flurry of feeling this day has inspired.</p><p> </p><p>“I<em> was </em>seeing what I could get away with,”  Sherlock says plainly, apropos of absolutely nothing.  John rolls his head sideways against the wall to look at him.</p><p> </p><p>“Ah—what?”  It goes without saying that his brows are now raised in amused confusion.  He has grown quite used to these random outbursts from the mind of Sherlock Holmes.</p><p> </p><p>“Last night.  On the sofa.  You’d asked if I was seeing what I could get away with—if it was some sort of experiment.  It was,”  He hasn’t met John’s eye, still looking down at the fading palette of light checkered across the wooden floor below.  John isn’t sure what to make of this, so he just waits.  He <em>had</em> asked those questions, but he’d given it up, deciding that Sherlock was only attempting to drive him mad.  Once the man had collapsed into his lap and fallen asleep, he’d forgotten the obnoxious intrusion of bony feet entirely.  “I wanted to—begin a conversation.  To tell you about this—the house—but also…”  He trails off, sighing and turning against the wall so that they’re face to face at last.  “John, I—”</p><p> </p><p>Rosie chooses this moment to abruptly fling open the door just beside them.  John turns, startled, to find her grinning from ear to ear.</p><p><br/>“Daddy, did you know that the bath is <em> blue?” </em></p><p> </p><p>◒</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Twelve</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>◓</p><p> </p><p>The bath <em> is </em> blue, John confirms quickly as they enter the loo at last.  The overall design is clean and minimal—walls covered in white subway tile, with a wide stripe of black running all the way around about a foot beneath the ceiling.  The floors are solid white, as are the large restored vintage sink and simple, modern toilet.  The entire back wall is dedicated to a massive open shower, with a thick glass partition, outlined in black.  All of the hardware and faucets are copper—much like the kitchen (John is sensing a theme here)—and off to the left is an enormous, clearly antique clawfoot bath painted inside and out in a deep, almost offensive, royal blue.</p><p> </p><p>In front of the bath, stretching toward the shower, is a carpet unlike anything John has ever seen.  Its thick pile is ivory, but woven into the simple backdrop is a flurry of symbols and colours with no apparent rhyme or reason.  The design is almost tribal—lopsided diamonds in varying sizes, odd zig-zags and slashes in clashing colours—browns and reds and pinks.  Throughout the rug are tufts of that familiar royal blue, making it look perfectly at home beside the clear centerpiece of the room.</p><p> </p><p>“Moroccan,”  Sherlock supplies, stepping up beside John.  “I bought it to match the bath.  Have always had a fondness for Berber textiles,”  John can’t think of a less likely thing to come out of Sherlock’s mouth.  He glances up at the man—always full of surprises.  “I thought you’d like it.”</p><p> </p><p>“I love it,”  He does.  He loves it as he loves everything about this place.  In the way that you love a thing only someone who really knows you—<em> better than you know yourself, </em> his mind supplies—can give you.</p><p> </p><p>“Good,”  Sherlock grins as he turns automatically to help Rosie—who has grabbed onto his arm for support in her attempt to clamber into the tub—by lifting her first high in the air, then dropping her gently into the blue basin.  “How is it, then?”  He asks seriously, peering down at her tiny form swallowed up by the ridiculous vessel.  John watches all of this with great amusement. </p><p> </p><p>“Good,”  She mimics his tone, giggling as she lies back against the end of the tub for a moment, then sits back up abruptly.  “Can we see <em> your </em> room?”</p><p> </p><p>“Of course,”  Sherlock says, reaching down to lift her back out.  “It’s just next door.”</p><p> </p><p>◒</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Thirteen</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>◓</p><p> </p><p>The first thing John notices upon entering Sherlock’s room is that it already looks a bit—well, <em> lived in. </em>  It’s not an overly-large space, likely not the master bedroom, but it’s spacious enough despite the king size bed that resides against the wall to the right.  The bed is beautiful—a sturdy wooden frame, minimalistic, but with a bit of an art deco feel to the curve of the headboard.  It looks to be antique, but with all stain and varnish stripped away—treated with only oil, giving it a natural, unsullied look.  It’s neatly made with charcoal linens and a vaguely familiar green plaid blanket draped across the foot of the bed that Sherlock must have brought from his room at Baker Street.</p><p> </p><p>There are long, sheer white curtains on the window, making this space feel more finished than the others they’ve roamed through thus far—still, it feels...lacking.  Not quite right.  The only other object in the room is a brown leather armchair to the left of the door, with a single towel draped over it.</p><p> </p><p>“Have you been staying here?”  John asks stupidly, realizing the moment the words leave his mouth that he already knows the answer to that.  Sherlock has been at Baker Street every night, as far as he can recall.  Except—</p><p> </p><p>“Obviously not.  I spent three days here last month while I got everything in order.  There were certain things I’d wanted to accomplish before I brought you here,”  John stares at him, feeling ridiculously relieved that <em> this </em> is where he’d disappeared to.  John had conjured wild ideas of dangerous cases abroad and had to do some real soul searching in order to stay calm, despite being left out.  Apparently, Sherlock was twenty minutes away the entire time.  “I had wanted it all to be a surprise—clearly not my finest idea,”  He shoots John an apologetic look that he returns with a small smile.  Sherlock couldn’t have possibly foreseen John’s initial misunderstanding.  Water under the bridge, at this point.  “Nevertheless, I’d hoped that the cottage would be ready when—when we needed it,”  John finds himself reaching out, grasping Sherlock’s arm reassuringly.  They <em> do </em> need it.  They need this new beginning.  He had seen that when John hadn’t.  “Anyway, the bedframe was built by my grandfather.  My parents have kept it in storage for decades, and I fished it out and had it refinished.  The mattress is new—obviously,”  He smirks.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh?  Didn’t want to use the stack of hay that came with it?”</p><p> </p><p>“I did consider it,”  He responds, scooping Rosie up and dropping her on the bed.  “But it wouldn’t have had quite the right bounce,”  She takes that statement as the invitation it is and jumps around, holding onto both of Sherlock’s hands—both of them giggling like fools.</p><p><br/>
John can only shake his head at the ridiculous image they present—and he knows full well how long this particular activity is likely to drag out.  Placing a hand briefly on Sherlock’s back, he heads out in search of the room that’s been chosen for <em> him. </em></p><p> </p><p>◒</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>10k words!  Thought this entire story would end up being half that.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Fourteen</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>◓</p><p> </p><p>John hesitates outside the last door at the end of the hall, listening to the giggles still drifting through the doorway to his left—the two great loves of his life, behaving like idiots for the fun of it.  Sherlock has always had a bit of a playful side, but he’d worked hard not to show it too much, determined to make the world take him seriously.  He let it out around John from time to time—giggling together in quiet corners of crime scenes and teasing each other relentlessly around the flat—but the presence of Rosie has certainly brought him out of his shell.  Peas in a pod, the two of them.  John smiles at their continued laughter, steels himself and pushes open the door.  </p><p> </p><p>The room is large.  Considerably larger than the space Sherlock has chosen for himself next door.  Certainly the master bedroom, and entirely empty but for the floor-to-ceiling built-in wardrobes on either side of the window seat, mirroring the one in what his mind has now affectionately coined the Bird Room.</p><p> </p><p>He walks in a slow circle, the wooden floors that are found throughout the entire cottage creaking slightly beneath his feet.  He suspects that Sherlock left it as a blank slate quite intentionally—giving John control over his own space.  While the sentiment is appreciated, he rather resents that there’s a wall between them at all.  Eyes scanning the room, he tries to picture a bed against the left wall, perhaps a set of chairs in the corner.  A carpet, naturally—maybe a lovely Moroccan one like Sherlock bought for the loo.  A dresser, too—beside the single door that sits in the center of the wall to his right.  </p><p> </p><p>He sighs, approaching the unassuming wooden barrier, already knowing what he’ll find behind it.  Without hesitation, he turns the knob and steps inside.</p><p> </p><p>The space is narrow, a mere two metres wide, but immediately it feels—familiar, almost—as if he’s just strolled into something he hadn’t even known he’d needed.  The window on the wall adjacent to the door is one of the four on the front of the cottage, letting in a soft glow of orange light as the sun sinks behind the wall of trees that make up the front garden.  To the right, an antique desk, fitting the space perfectly, as though it’s been there from the start.  To the left, the built-in bookshelves that Sherlock had mentioned when he’d first told John that this place was for him, too.  For <em> them. </em>  </p><p> </p><p>It had been what caused John to crumble in that moment.  The mention of this, of a <em> study </em>—just the fact that Sherlock had thought about such a thing—about John’s need for a peaceful corner to recharge his creative energy.  There hasn’t been much peace in the flat in the past few years.  Things have been mostly lovely—they really have—but between cases, sharing a room with Rosie and the fact that there’s really nowhere to escape to within 221B, John’s spent more time talking about his intention to begin writing again than actually doing it.  The blog has sat neglected—an occasional update, when he can muster the motivation, but nothing like it used to be.</p><p> </p><p>On the desk sits a laptop, still in the box.  <em> Damnit, </em> he thinks, smiling to himself.  The bastard.  John has been insisting his old one is fine, just fine, for years now.  It isn’t, really—it barely functions.  Perhaps another reason why he has been rather uninspired to open it and set fingers to keys.  He approaches the desk, noticing a folded piece of white paper sitting atop the box.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <em> Yours is useless.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> SH </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> PS - Consider putting some effort into your password, for once. </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>“Bastard,”  John says to the empty room, grin still firmly in place.  He turns, meaning to head back out and find the man in question, when his gaze halts on what appears to be a small, modern safe on the wall beside the door.  Curious, he tugs on the handle, surprised when it swings open.  A gun safe—meant to hold a single firearm.  Unbelievable.  Sherlock must have had it installed, solving yet another conundrum John has been ignoring for far too long.  He’s been making do with the top shelf of his wardrobe since Rosie came into the picture, unwilling to keep his Sig downstairs while they sleep.  He’s known it was a temporary solution, not a viable option as Rosie grows.  Apparently, Sherlock has thought of everything.</p><p> </p><p>“I believe you’ve missed something,”  John looks up calmly at the sound of Sherlock’s voice, unsurprised at his timely arrival—he always could read John’s bloody mind.  He stands in the doorway, a sleepy Rosie in his arms.  She’s clearly succumbed to drowsiness amidst the encroaching darkness and the excitement of the day.</p><p> </p><p>“Have I?”  John says evenly, holding Sherlock’s gaze.  They stand, eyes locked, for what feels like an age.  John is more sure now than ever of their potential for a new start, for something <em> more. </em>  Sherlock’s love for him is on full display, here—as though his heart has taken the form of this carefully chosen home.  Eventually, Sherlock nods toward the bookshelves.</p><p> </p><p>Hesitantly breaking their gaze, John looks, only now noticing a single book standing neatly on a shelf at eye level.  He takes the few steps to reach it, holding it delicately in his hands and studying its cover.  <em> A Moveable Feast </em> by Ernest Hemingway.  He hasn’t heard of it, only recently purchasing his first Hemingway novel— <em> The Sun Also Rises. </em>  He’d liked it, and he’d told Sherlock as much.  He had not, however, expected him to remember such a mundane statement, or even to be listening at all.</p><p> </p><p>“Bit of a prick, but he lived a notable life,”  Sherlock says, walking up beside him and casually leaning against the wall to John’s left.  Rosie has slumped against his shoulder, futilely fighting sleep.  “It’s a memoir about his time in Paris, discovering his love of writing—as well as the people he met there who’d changed his life for the better,”  John stares down at the book, carefully opening it to the first page.  A first edition hardcover, published in 1964.  “The title is in reference to a phrase originally of religious descent, meaning an observed holiday with no fixed date.  Hemingway applied it to a place, an <em> experience, </em> instead,”  John meets Sherlock’s eye, not quite understanding what he’s trying to say.  “What he meant,”  He continues, smiling slightly at John’s clear confusion.  “Is that once you’ve loved a place—once you’ve lived a life there, set down roots and grown within its walls—you can move on when you need to, without ever truly leaving it behind.”</p><p> </p><p><em> God. </em>  John had been sure he couldn’t possibly feel any more for this man, his heart already bursting at the proverbial seams.  He’d been wrong.</p><p><br/>“Sherlock,”  His voice is a mere husk, emotion now escaping through the words on his tongue.  “Thank you,”  He manages, barely.  “For this, for all of it,”  He takes a step forward, weaving their fingers together tightly.  Sherlock stands frozen in place, still clutching onto a now-sleeping Rosie.   “I’ve no bloody idea what I’ve done to deserve this—to deserve you,”  He leans up, determined, and presses his lips firmly to Sherlock’s cheek.  “This means so much, I need you to know that,”  John says quietly against warm skin, before stepping back, squeezing the long fingers entwined with his own.  “I love you—so much—I—I’m <em> in </em> love with you,”  He breathes shakily, watching as a tear slips free from the corner of Sherlock’s eye.  John reaches up, gently brushing it away with the pad of his thumb.   “I think you know that, but all the same.  I’m so bloody grateful for you, Sherlock.  You're everything to me,"  He feels a wave of relief at saying these words aloud after all this time.  Sherlock can do with them what he will, but he deserves to hear it.  "You’ve always been everything to me.”</p><p> </p><p>◒</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Fifteen</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>◓</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock is quiet.  He’d said nothing in response to John’s long overdue declarations, only pulled him closer and rested a cheek on the crown of his head.  They had spent long minutes like that, pressed together, standing silently in each others’ orbit—until John began to suspect that the dead weight of a sleeping three year old may be getting to be a bit much, and took on the burden himself.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He was quiet as they climbed into their new (old) Land Rover, taking the wheel as John buckled Rosie into the back.  He’d said nothing for the entire twenty minute drive, but rested his hand low on John’s thigh near his knee, for a bit.  It felt as though he were simply trying it out.  Another experiment—a test run in this whole </span>
  <em>
    <span>romance</span>
  </em>
  <span> lark that they’re standing on the cusp of.  John didn’t mind at all.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock doesn’t utter a word when they park beside Mrs. Hudson’s car in the underground lot she'd bought space in—not even sparing a glance for its sleek, dust-covered form.  John watches, growing a bit concerned as Sherlock gently frees Rosie from her seatbelt and hoists her up to sleep against his shoulder once more, heading for the stairs and leaving John to follow.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Once they’re back in the flat, he heads straight up the steps to put Rosie down—so John flips the kettle on and waits, thoughts spinning.  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He wonders if he’s gone too far, telling Sherlock what he feels for him.  He thought he’d already known—known for </span>
  <em>
    <span>years</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  John may never have said it aloud before today, but he </span>
  <em>
    <span>had</span>
  </em>
  <span> once kissed him.  With feeling.  With intent.  Surely Sherlock knows that he would never </span>
  <em>
    <span>do</span>
  </em>
  <span> that if it were anything less than a grand statement.  A bloody </span>
  <em>
    <span>proclamation.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  He’d certainly never just kiss him on a whim—not like that.  It’s true that John had never put much value in a snog—never thought much of it with his past lovers—</span>
  <em>
    <span>girlfriends,</span>
  </em>
  <span> his mind corrects.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>And wife.  It’s only ever been women—</span>
  </em>
  <span>but it’s not like that with Sherlock.  Not at all.  It was always going to be all or nothing with Sherlock, where romance is concerned.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>And that kiss had been </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  Until it wasn’t.  Until Sherlock had sat him down and told him that it was nothing at all.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe that’s why he’s been so quiet—perhaps he’s worried now that John has said those words, he’ll demand things that Sherlock isn’t willing to give.  Surely not.  At this point, whatever this is between them—even if they just continue on as they were, perhaps with more hand holding—John is in it for keeps.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Surely</span>
  </em>
  <span> Sherlock knows—</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“John,”  He jumps slightly at the sound of his name, turning to find a gangly shadow hovering in the doorway.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey,”  He tries for a smile.  “Want to talk?”  This is how he’d open the door for their fireside chats, back when they still had much to talk through.  John can’t deny that they’ve reached that point again, and he knows by now that a direct approach works best.  Sherlock will either nod and head for his chair, waiting for John to join with tea, or he’ll disappear into his room with a muttered </span>
  <em>
    <span>busy</span>
  </em>
  <span> or </span>
  <em>
    <span>tired.</span>
  </em>
  
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Not tonight,”  He says, catching John by surprise.  “I need to think,”  While these may be the four words in the English language most frequently uttered by one Sherlock Holmes, they don’t bode well for their current situation.  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>John is certain that his face reflects the disappointment he’s feeling, but he doesn’t much care right now.  He misses being able to speak openly—wants to get back to that place, to understand what’s happening between them.  But he won’t force the topic.  That would help nothing.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“All right,”  John feels suddenly awkward.  “I’ll just…”  He trails off, grabbing his tea and leaving another steaming cup on the worktop.  He brushes past Sherlock, meaning to head toward the steps to his room, when Sherlock wraps his fingers delicately around John’s wrist.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Come to bed with me,”  He says quietly, his words slipping gently into John’s ear, causing every hair on his body to stand abruptly on end.  “Just—that.  Just to—sleep.  Or in my case, to think.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You want me there?”  John asks, honestly stunned by the suggestion.  Sherlock gives him a look so familiar he can’t help but grin back—a look that plainly says </span>
  <em>
    <span>Would I have suggested it if I didn’t?</span>
  </em>
  <span>  “All right,”  John breathes, carefully extricating his wrist and continuing on his path upstairs to change.  “Be back in a tick.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He takes his time on the steps, sipping his tea and wondering what this could possibly be about.  He certainly isn’t going to question it—not aloud anyway.  Not after last night, falling asleep with Sherlock curled up in his lap and waking up tucked warmly beside him—however awkward it may have been.  If having that on a regular basis is on offer, he will suffer through however many embarrassing mornings he must for it to become their new standard.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Suddenly wanting to be back downstairs—back in the presence of his confusing, brooding, beautiful best mate—he hurriedly shucks off his clothes and changes into an old rugby t-shirt and plaid pyjama bottoms.  He takes a moment to check on Rosie, who’s still out like a light, then makes his way back down—tea left forgotten on the bedside table.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock is in the loo, brushing his teeth with the door wide open.  John joins him, reaching for their shared toothpaste and giving him a small smile.  Sherlock grins lopsidedly around the handle of his toothbrush, then spits, rinses and heads for his room.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>When John finds himself lurking in the doorway, unsure as ever, Sherlock rolls his eyes from his nest beneath the duvet—unruly halo of curls and two grey eyes poking out the top on the far side of the bed.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Come on, then,”  He says impatiently.  “And turn off the light,”  John does.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He tries to will his heart to stop galloping as he crawls under the soft sheets, lying still and waiting for a cue from Sherlock on what comes next.  He’s surprised, then, when the man rolls over and slides back against John’s chest, mirroring the position they woke up in this morning.  Smiling into the mop of brown curls that are now smothering him, John slips one arm between Sherlock and the bed below, bringing the other around to hug him close.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“All right?”  He whispers into the crook of his shoulder, where his nose has come to rest.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Mm,”  Sherlock shifts, settling against him as though he were always meant to be there—two halves of an unconventional whole.  The long fingers of his left hand curl around John’s where they rest against his ribcage.  “Thank you,”  He mumbles, seemingly half in his mind palace already.  John isn’t at all sure what he’s being thanked for, but he spares Sherlock the tedium of explaining and just holds him a bit tighter.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It isn’t difficult to allow himself to melt into the beloved body in front of him—breathing him in and keeping him close.  And it isn’t long at all before John slips gently off to sleep, sighing as the resonant cavern that haunts his heart gingerly begins to mend.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>◒</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Sixteen</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>◓</p><p> </p><p>“John,”  He’d recognize that voice anywhere, even from deep within the quiescent void of sleep.  “John, wake up,”  Groaning as he rises slowly back to the land of the living, John stretches, inhaling deeply and immediately recalling where he’d fallen asleep last night.  He’s lying face down, surrounded by the scent of the man beside him, nose buried in ridiculously high thread count sheets.  Turning his head and squinting into the morning light, John sees Sherlock’s lanky form sprawled out to his right—one hand propping up his brilliant brain and the other on the small of John’s back.</p><p> </p><p>“Hello,”  John smiles.</p><p> </p><p>“Watson’s awake,”  He responds, eyes darting pointedly at the ceiling.</p><p> </p><p>“She’ll come down,”  She’s known how to scoot down the steps since she was two.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, she’ll come straight in here,”  John feels his brow furrow, unsure what Sherlock is getting at.  “She’ll see us...”</p><p> </p><p>“She—so?  Why shouldn’t she?”  Sherlock only stares back at him, opening his mouth slightly then closing it once more, lips pressed in a thin line.  “Sherlock,”  John sighs.  “We’ll talk today, all right?  We need to have a conversation,”  His only response is a single nod.  “Did you sleep?”</p><p> </p><p>“A bit.”</p><p> </p><p>“Is that true?”</p><p> </p><p>“No,”  John smirks, wondering if Sherlock spent the entire night in his mind palace or just watching John sleep.  He can hear Rosie shuffling about in the hall.</p><p> </p><p>“Come in, kid,”  He feels the sudden absence of Sherlock’s hand on his back.  He wonders what, exactly, he’s concerned about.  Rosie won’t bat an eye at the sight of them sharing a bed—she’s oblivious to the implications, and they’re fully clothed with a foot of space between them anyway.  John had left the door slightly ajar last night, and now it creaks open, stubby fingers appearing first and then two blue eyes peeking through the gap.  “Morning.”</p><p> </p><p>“Hi,”  She says, grinning at the sight of them and wasting no time climbing up onto the bed, crawling over John’s legs and curling up in the middle.  John rolls onto his side and brushes his fingers through her blonde ringlets, smiling as she reaches for Sherlock’s hand.  She waits for him to stop playing with her hair and then grabs onto his hand, too.</p><p> </p><p>“Want to spend the day with Molly?”  John asks on a whim, the words leaving his mouth before he can even think it through.  He hasn’t spoken to her about potentially taking Rosie today, but to be fair she’s never once said no—and it happens to be her day off.  Molly has been something like a friend, something like a third parent to Rosie from the very start.  An invaluable presence in their lives.  And she has made it known time and time again that she is just as thrilled to take her as Rosie is to go.</p><p> </p><p>“Can I really?”  She asks, face lighting up.  John glances at Sherlock, who gives him a look that says <em> Have you even begun to think this through? </em></p><p> </p><p>“Maybe, yeah,”  John says to his beaming daughter.  “I’ll give her a call, shall I?”</p><p> </p><p>∙</p><p> </p><p>“What have you two got on then?  Another case?  Already?”  John has stepped out into the living room to make the call, knowing full well that if he doesn’t Sherlock will hijack the conversation to ask about recent deaths and infected body parts—as he so often does when it’s Molly on the line.</p><p> </p><p>“No, we—ah—“  Does Molly know that he’s bought them a cottage?  Doubtful.  Sherlock does love the element of surprise, surely he hasn’t bothered to tell their friends—hadn’t even told John until yesterday.  May as well fill her in.  “Well, we’re moving, actually.  Thought we ought to get a jump on it, maybe start bringing some of our things to the new—“</p><p> </p><p>“Sorry, <em> what?” </em>   Definitely hadn’t known, then.  “John, <em> what? </em>  Where?  A new flat?  Is it nearby?”</p><p> </p><p>“Ah—yes.  Bit closer to your place actually.  Chiswick.  Sherlock bought—“</p><p> </p><p>“He <em> bought?” </em>  John huffs, half amused at her endless string of questions and half annoyed that he hasn’t yet been allowed to finish a single sentence.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes.”</p><p> </p><p>“Wow,”  She breathes.  She doesn’t know of the small fortune Mrs. Hudson has left to Sherlock—this must seem like an impossible occurrence.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,”  What can he say, really?  <em> Wow, </em> indeed.</p><p> </p><p>“That’s—<em> John,” </em>   She continues.  He can almost hear the gears turning through the phone line as she thinks it all through.  “It’s a big step,”  Her tone says everything that she isn’t saying outright.  He sighs, feeling the last of his resolve begin to crumble.  Molly always has had a way of getting straight to the heart of it all.  She’s asked him several times over the years why he and Sherlock don’t just <em> go for it, </em> and he hasn’t had the heart to tell her that he’s already tried.</p><p> </p><p>“It is, yeah.  Look, Molly—we could use some time—just us.  We—have a lot to talk about.  Will you take her?  Promise you can be the first to see the new place.”</p><p> </p><p>“Of course I’ll take her, when have I ever said no?  We can go to the zoo.  Greg will be at the Yard all bloody day and night anyway,”  She pauses, considering.  “Everything all right with you two?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,”  More than all right, if a bit confusing.  “Yeah, good.  Just—need some time.  Thanks Molly, really.  You’re a diamond.”</p><p> </p><p>◒</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Seventeen</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>◓</p><p> </p><p>“I’ve got movers on retainer,”  Sherlock blurts out from where he stands leaning against the worktop, sipping the cup of tea John has placed in his hands.  The morning had been a whirlwind of omelets and arguing with a three year old over the chocolate-stained dress she was insistent on wearing.  In the end, she had won out of sheer bullheadedness, but John had packed a small bag with a few options in case she changed her mind.  Molly stopped by Baker Street to scoop her up on the way to the zoo, wanting to get there before the crowds became too overwhelming.  She’d thankfully refrained from bombarding them with questions, but they did tell her a bit about the cottage, promising she could see it soon.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh?”  John responds distractedly, adding milk to his own tea and putting away the last few dishes from the drying rack.  He supposes there’s really no point—they’ll have to be packed up soon anyway—but it’s in his nature to clear up the clutter.</p><p> </p><p>“I wasn’t sure how soon you’d want to begin the process,”  Sherlock says hesitantly.  John glances up at him, picking up on the wavering tone of his voice.  He looks—weary.  Tired and unsure.  <em> Still, </em> after everything John had said last night.</p><p> </p><p>“Sherlock—let’s do this, come on,”  John nods toward their chairs, picking up his tea and heading that way, sure that he’ll follow.  He does.  They sit, eyes locked, silent for a few moments—John knowing innately that he’ll have to be the one to begin this dialogue.  He inhales deeply, more than ready to say what needs to be said.  “Things have been a bit different these past few days,”  Vague, but true.  Sherlock says nothing.  “You’ve done this incredible thing—you’ve set up a future for us—found us a home that is so bloody far beyond what I could have imagined, I can hardly believe it’s real,”  John sighs, leaning forward, resting his forearms on his thighs.  “Sherlock, it’s quite a statement—at least to me—I—I need to know if you meant it to be.  A statement,”  God, he sounds like an idiot.</p><p> </p><p>“Of course I did.  We’ve discussed this—”</p><p> </p><p>“We haven’t though, have we?”  John cuts in, unwilling to dance around the subject any longer.  “We haven’t.  There’s a whole level to this that we’ve been avoiding for ages.  I<em> kissed </em> you, Sherlock—that was me making a statement of my own.  It was no small thing, for me.  And you didn’t want that—and honestly—that’s all right.  I’m fine with it.  It took me awhile, but I am.  I like what we have.  But now all this—the other night on the sofa—and by the water yesterday, you seemed—“ He cuts himself off with an exasperated huff.  <em> You seemed as though you’d wanted to kiss me, too. </em>  “—and then last night, you—I just—need to understand,”  He takes a breath and lets it out slowly, realizing he’s been speaking rather quickly.  Sherlock shifts in his chair, looking ill at ease but not breaking their shared gaze.  “I need you to tell me what you want from me.  Whatever it is—you can have it.  Even if that means nothing changes.”</p><p> </p><p>“What if everything changes?”  Sherlock asks bluntly.  John gives him a questioning look, not entirely sure what he means by it.  “What if everything changes for the worse?”</p><p> </p><p>“Why would it?”  He’s still not quite following—this conversation feels abstract, like they’re still skirting around the truth.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s <em> reckless, </em> John—acting on sentiment,”  He nearly spits this out, voice gradually rising as he continues to find the words.  “I don’t know what to <em> do </em> with what I feel for you.  We have something that I, at this point, <em> could not </em> live without,”  He throws his hands up, letting them fall back onto his knees, leaning forward and mirroring John’s position.  “I think you know by now that this is truly not my area—in that I’ve never experienced anything like this with another human being.  You are, almost literally, my entire world—you and Watson—and I am terrified that if I just take what I want, I’ll lose everything.”</p><p> </p><p>John stares, entirely bewildered by Sherlock’s raw words and shaking hands.  He reaches out, grabbing hold of trembling fingers and squeezing—a gesture that’s almost starting to feel natural for them.</p><p> </p><p>“But you know that I feel the same,”  His traitorous voice is beginning to fail him.</p><p> </p><p>“You think you do,”  Sherlock looks away, staring at the cold heap of ashes in the grate.  “Until I overwhelm you entirely.”</p><p> </p><p>“That happened years ago,”  John says, smiling wryly.  “Sherlock, I don’t know what you’re so worried about.  I know you.  And I’ve already chosen to be with you—in whatever way works for us.  I thought that you were just opposed to having a physical relationship—or, well—”  He swallows, feeling awkward as ever.  “—a sexual one.  I had intended to tell you that wouldn't be a problem.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, well there is that,”  He doesn’t take his eyes off of the grate.  “I am entirely out of my depth.  Another of several reasons I’m rather fearful of altering the balance we’ve struck,”  John can count on one hand the number of times Sherlock has admitted to being afraid.  “But I’m certainly not opposed,”  Oh.</p><p> </p><p>“Neither am I,”  John grins a bit sheepishly, waiting for Sherlock to look at him.  When he does, his eyes bare a wicked glint.  “Obviously,”  John adds, swallowing at the brief flash of heat he sees in those sharp grey orbs.  “But for the record, <em> I </em> am also entirely out of my depth,”  Sherlock scoffs.  “I am.  You’ve no idea.  We can talk about this another time—I just want to be on the same page, Sherlock.  I don’t understand the hesitance.  You don’t have to feel that way with me.”  Sherlock turns his hands, tangling their fingers together.  “I want to ask you something,”  John says, emboldened by this enlightening chat.  “About Rosie.”</p><p> </p><p>“Go on, then,”  He says, brows pinched with curiosity.  John clears his throat.</p><p> </p><p>“You—you’re her father,”  Sherlock’s eyes narrow incrementally and John lets out a quiet huff of laughter.  <em> “We’re </em> her <em> fathers. </em>   I’ve considered her <em> ours </em> for ages.  She sees you as a parent—you <em> are </em> her parent,”  <em> Christ, </em> get to the point.  “I—wanted to suggest she call you dad.  Or whatever you like, really.  If—if that’s all right.”</p><p> </p><p>Sherlock’s deep laughter is like a balm to John’s soul—filled with amused relief and something like delight.</p><p> </p><p>“Of course it’s all right,”  He stands up, pulling John along with him.  “She can hardly pronounce my name anyway,”  He drops one of John’s hands, cupping the back of his head instead and pressing soft lips to his temple.  “Embarrassing, really,”  He says quietly against John’s skin, lingering for a long moment, fingers gliding up through his silver hair.  John shivers, involuntarily leaning into the touch.  “Come on,”  Pulling back abruptly, Sherlock whips out his mobile.  “I’ll call the movers, shall I?  We can spend the day at the cottage,”  John grins through the whiplash he’s surely gotten from Sherlock’s rapidly shifting moods.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,”  He breathes.  No reason to wait—he’s more than ready to leap headfirst into this new beginning.  “Brilliant.  Let’s go.”</p><p> </p><p>◒</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. Eighteen</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The last part of this chapter is something I wrote before I started this story, and it's been sort of an outline for how it's all taken shape.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>◓</p>
<p> </p>
<p>John lies on the lush grass of their new back garden, staring up at the sky as the sun begins its slow descent, casting a warm glow over the expanse of flowers and trees that surround him.  He breathes in the mingling scent of sweet peas and hydrangeas, closing his eyes for a moment to fully appreciate what he now has.  </p>
<p> </p>
<p>It’s been a long day.  He picks a blade of grass and holds it up in front of him, clumsily tying it into a knot and then tossing it aside.  He’d done that habitually as a child—tied knots in blades of grass and the wrappers from straws.  As a young adult he’d spent his idle moments folding receipts and napkins and the labels from beer bottles into misshapen origami.  Always fidgeting.  His friends had teased him that it was pent up sexual energy causing him to pick at things, never quite staying still.  But it was never that.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>They had spent the rest of the morning directing movers—who were clearly under Mycroft’s employ—around 221B, packing boxes and deciding which furniture would make the move with them.  By mid-afternoon they were at the cottage, Sherlock flapping about, booming instructions at the muscled men who had swiftly and efficiently transferred their possessions from one life to the next.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>John had spent hours wandering from room to room, bringing objects to their intended destinations.  He found himself mostly focused on Rosie’s space—filling the shelves with her collection of books and turning the Bee Room into a proper playroom.  Her tiny wooden bed sits against the left wall in the Bird Room, made up in the new pink linens Sherlock had ordered to match the walls.  Just one of the final tricks he’d had up his sleeve—a collection of thoughtful items kept stashed in a cupboard, the most memorable being a new electric tea kettle, which honestly they’ve needed for ages.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>John had stepped into his own room several times throughout the day, circling the empty space but always coming up short on ways to fill it.  He had left his old bed at Baker Street.  He isn’t sure what sleeping arrangements they’ll decide on for the future—it’s really up to Sherlock whether they retain their own space or share one—but either way, John wants a new bed.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sherlock has been in his lab for the past hour, unpacking boxes of test tubes and flasks, placing objects on shelves, seemingly with no rhyme or reason.  John had watched him for a bit, perched quietly on the worktop as Sherlock fiddled with his microscope and carefully transferred an ongoing experiment from a box into his new posh fridge.  Eventually exhaustion had caught up with him, so John made his way outside and collapsed onto the grass.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Eyes closed once more, he feels Sherlock drop down beside him, smiling when long fingers card gently through his hair.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I want to show you something,”  He rumbles, lying down on John’s right and fishing some sort of paper out of his jacket pocket.  Opening his eyes, John accepts the unmarked envelope that’s hovering over his face, glancing at Sherlock before removing the well-worn paper inside.  He takes a deep breath when he sees what it is—immediately recognizing the tidy, looping handwriting.  Holding the letter carefully in one hand, he wraps the other around Sherlock’s restless fingers and begins to read.</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <em> My Dear Sherlock, </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> Get that look off of your face and let an old lady have the final word, for once.  Read this letter in its entirety or so help me, I’ll haunt you until your dying day. </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> I’m sorry about this, I really am.  I didn’t want to go and die on you, but I hardly had any say in the matter.  These things happen.  So it goes.  Such is life.  Shall I continue?  I know how you love a nice platitude. </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> First things first, dear, I need to thank you.  You never did let me.  When you saw to it that I was freed from the shackles of my unfortunate husband all those years ago, you gave me a shot at a life worth living.  There was a time when I was sure I’d spend the rest of my days suffocating in that miserable Florida heat and suffering through a loveless existence because I’d feared the alternative.  I am certain that you do not realize the gift you gave me when we met. </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> So thank you, Sherlock, for that and for everything that followed.  I hope to repay the favour, now that I’m gone and you have no bloody say in the matter. </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> Some may say that you’re an impossible man, but I know better.  You’re the least difficult of men.  All you want is boundless love.  The poet Frank O’Hara said that, and he wasn’t so different from you.   He also said that each time his heart breaks he becomes more adventurous, and I can only hope the same is true for you and your John.  I’ve watched the two of you form a bond of the sort most of us can only dream to find in a lifetime.  I’ve seen how it’s grown between you, and I see how you hesitate to let it bloom.  I won’t pretend to know what’s stopping you.  We all have our secrets.  But Sherlock, you must do what you need to do for yourself, and say what you need to say to him.  You’ve lost enough time.  Show that man what he is to you, what he’s done for you.  Let yourself have what you want.  You are as deserving as anyone, perhaps moreso. </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> For my part, I’m leaving you 221.  It’s rightfully yours, if you need it, but I hope that you won’t.  You have my blessing to sell the damned place or whatever else you see fit to do with it.  My sister is the only one I’m leaving behind and she’s got all she’ll ever need, so the contents of my bank account are now yours as well.  Don’t roll your eyes, love, it’s unbecoming.  I know that a set of flats and a stack of pounds aren’t really what you need, but I hope that it’s a start. </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> Take as long as you must, but do consider the impermanence of life.  Allow yourself to be happy and whole while you’re still young and able.  They love you, Sherlock.  And I love you as well. </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> Yours, </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Martha Hudson </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>◒</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/26538/meditations-in-an-emergency">Meditations in an Emergency</a> by Frank O'Hara</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. Nineteen</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>◓</p><p> </p><p>Carefully folding the letter along its creases—nearly torn from overuse—John tucks the unassuming piece of paper into its envelope and returns it to its rightful owner.  He stares up at the darkening sky, fingers locked around Sherlock’s, having tightened with each of Mrs. Hudson’s final words to him—to his best friend, the love of his life—her reassurances that he’s <em> allowed </em> to have what he wants, that he’s <em> deserving. </em>  Of course he bloody is.</p><p> </p><p>How long has Sherlock felt that he isn’t able to have this, that he isn’t worthy of it—of love?  Has John contributed to the restive doubt that’s haunted him for all these years?  Yes.  Yes, of course—is the short answer, the unbearably painful truth.  They’ve spent years working to get past the cruel words John has directed at him in his lowest moments, the violence he’s inflicted upon him, his determination to remain distant once Sherlock had returned from the dead.  They have worked through all of the major ways they’ve wronged one another, all of the big moments in their lives that have defined the dark side of their friendship.  </p><p> </p><p>But what of the small ones?  What of the moments easily forgotten, pushed aside?  How many times had he denied their partnership, declaring himself <em> not gay </em>—a laughable claim, considering he’d loved the man from the start.  How must that have felt, what damage has it done?  What lasting effects has the sum of John’s actions had on the most profound relationship of his entire bloody life?</p><p> </p><p>Trust Mrs. Hudson to inadvertently, indirectly and posthumously show him what he’s missed, what he hadn’t quite seen for himself.  But she was right about the rest of it, too—their bond is unyielding—and they have lost enough time.</p><p> </p><p>Releasing Sherlock’s fingers, he turns onto his side, propping his head up with his recently freed hand and looking down at the man sprawled out on the grass beside him, grey eyes quietly searching his own.  John hooks a finger through a belt loop and tugs, smiling when Sherlock rolls his eyes and then his body, shifting until they lie face to face.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s a beautiful letter,”  John says, voice hushed, breaking the delicate silence that had fallen over them.  “I miss her,”  He lets his hand linger on the slight curve of Sherlock’s waist, keeping a point of contact as he considers his next words.  “I’ve been a fool,”  He breathes.  “I’ve given you countless reasons to doubt my sincerity.”</p><p> </p><p>“I didn’t show you the letter to dredge up our demons, John.”</p><p> </p><p>“No,”  He sighs.  “But it’s forced me to acknowledge a few things nevertheless,”  Sherlock shakes his head, brow frustratedly furrowed.</p><p> </p><p>“I only wanted you to see things from her perspective.  I’d hoped you would understand that I do want this—all of it, everything—it was clear to her that I always have.  I <em> always </em> have, John,”  <em> That makes it worse, </em> John thinks.  <em> It makes everything I’ve put you through inexcusably worse. </em>  He brings his hand up to brush back a fallen curl, runs his palm down Sherlock’s jawline, the pad of his thumb smoothing gently over a flushed cheek.</p><p> </p><p>“So have I,”  John whispers, fighting the persistent prickle of tears.  “I love you,”  He watches as something shifts in Sherlock’s eyes, a spark of determination abruptly making itself known.  And he’s surprised, then, when he finds himself lying flat on his back, Sherlock hovering over him, two bony knees straddling his thighs.</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know how to do this,”  His voice is equal parts shaky and resolute.  Mussed curls frame his face, sharp features illuminated by the final fiery rays of the disappearing sun.  John’s heart aches at the uncertainty in his words, at war with his obstinate desire to move forward—to break down the final barrier that stands between them.</p><p> </p><p>“Neither do I,”  He whispers—because he knows what Sherlock means.  He isn’t speaking of physical inexperience (although that seems to be true as well)—neither of them quite know how to navigate this uncharted realm.  It’s never <em> meant </em> so much before—not even close.  There’s never been so much at stake, for either of them.  John stares up into mesmeric eyes, tears making their escape at last, tracing a crooked path across his cheeks.  “Just—”  He reaches up, taking Sherlock’s face in his hands.  “Come here,”  He allows John to pull him downward, collapsing against his chest.  </p><p> </p><p>Fingers weaving their way into curls and eyes squeezing shut, John presses his lips to Sherlock’s forehead, his temple—scattering kiss after kiss across the surface of his skin—heart thrashing and inhibitions crumbling with each unrestrained show of affection.  He can feel Sherlock shaking against him, breath quickening, long fingers threading through John’s own hair.  He can feel, too, the moment when Sherlock sheds his doubt—tilting his head up to seek out John’s mouth.</p><p> </p><p>A shared gasp—lips trembling where they touch.  A pause—noses brushing, mingled breath hot as it puffs over skin, behind teeth, into lungs.  A careful caress, a subtle slide of tongue.</p><p> </p><p>Then Sherlock, everywhere, all at once.  Pulling him in, <em> consuming </em> him as John has long wished he would.  Overwhelming him, as he’d warned, but in a manner akin to <em> bliss </em>—and John lets go.</p><p> </p><p>Hands scrabbling, seeking more contact, he pushes up under posh fabric—fingers skating over scarred skin.  Sherlock groans into his mouth, rolling back and pulling John with him, hitching a leg snugly over his hip.  Closer than ever, bodies flush together and John’s head still in his hands, Sherlock devastates him, devours him—as though a near-decade of wanting and waiting has led up to this moment.  And it has, hasn’t it?  It has.</p><p> </p><p>John gives as good as he gets—pouring everything he’s been holding back into this precious union—shedding the last of his reservations and allowing himself to get lost in it.  Limbs tangle, hearts thud in tandem against the walls of their serried chests.  He can hardly breathe through the flood of shared relief that surges between them—the desperate slide of tongues and warring lips as they tenderly tear each other apart.</p><p> </p><p>“John,”  Sherlock gasps, after an eternity—pulling away but remaining close.  “Let’s stay here tonight,”  He whispers against the corner of John’s mouth, lips drifting softly across his cheek.  It takes John an age to pull himself back to the surface and think this through, rather distracted by the evidence of Sherlock’s affection pressed hot against his thigh.  Their belongings are all here, so—yeah. Oh, but—</p><p> </p><p>“Rosie—“  He rasps, remembering regretfully that they have a daughter to consider.</p><p> </p><p>“I’ve already texted Molly,”  His left hand drifts down John’s neck, over his shoulder—kneading gently into muscle.</p><p> </p><p>“Of course you have,”  John huffs, feeling swarmed with fondness, with gratitude for the sudden ease of this new intimacy.  He can hardly believe that this is now their reality, that they’ve made it here at last.</p><p> </p><p>“Come on,”  Sherlock breathes, kissing him urgently—fusing them together, warming John down to the bone—before breaking away, his gaze heated, intense.  “Let’s go to bed.”</p><p> </p><p>◒</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0020"><h2>20. Twenty</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>◓</p><p> </p><p>The two of them manage to trip through the back door and spiral gracelessly up the staircase—elated, nearly giddy—helplessly clutching onto one another.  Once the landing is firmly beneath their feet, however, all sense of levity evaporates—a heady fog settling over them as Sherlock takes John’s hand and leads him straight down the hall to his bedroom.</p><p> </p><p>Closing the door behind him with a soft <em> click, </em> John stands, heart in a frenzy, and waits for Sherlock to meet his eyes.</p><p> </p><p>“All right?” He whispers, letting go of long fingers to run both palms soothingly down the man’s ribcage, his waist, settling gently on his hips.  John can see that he’s nervous—that perhaps now that this is really happening it all feels like a bit much for his brilliant brain to process.  If he’s honest with himself, he feels similarly overwhelmed.</p><p> </p><p>John has never <em> been </em> with a man before.  It’s hardly felt relevant—having loved Sherlock so deeply for such a long time—but in practice, he’s entirely out of his depth.  And, in general—it’s been awhile.  He hasn’t sought out any sort of relationship (or even a single sexual encounter) in four years, knowing full well that no one else would compare to the man who shares his home and holds his heart.  Not even close, not ever.  He’d learned that lesson the hard way.  And so all of this feels a bit—novel—and, well—rather staggering, if he’s being honest (and he is—finally, he is).  A scenario he’d deemed impossible ages ago is now materializing before his very eyes and beneath his trembling hands.</p><p> </p><p>John holds his breath as Sherlock stares back steadily, pale irises nearly eclipsed by pupils blown wide.  He nods once, swallowing thickly, then slowly begins to unbutton his shirt—never breaking their gaze as he slips each tiny white disc free and drops the grass-stained, wrinkled fabric carelessly to the floor.  He kicks off shoes and socks, hesitating briefly—then unfastens his trousers, stepping out of them quickly and standing before John in nothing but his posh black pants.</p><p> </p><p>With a deep breath, John follows suit, tossing his t-shirt aside and dropping his jeans to the floor.  He hurriedly pulls off each sock, then stands up straight—silently observing this vulnerable, unguarded version of the man he holds most dear—a side of him that he’d never really expected to meet.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re so beautiful,”  He breathes, a complex mix of emotion welling up in his chest at his own candid words.  He’s always wanted to say them.  He’s thought them countless times—while running through alleyways and up fire escapes, stopping to catch their breath with a shared grin.  Sitting across from him at a café, hypnotic voice deducing each person who enters their line of sight.  Every single time he surprises John with the depth of his love and consideration for their daughter. <em> You’re beautiful.  Beautiful. </em>  And now here he stands, unmasking himself—crossing a line he’s never crossed before because he <em> wants </em> to, with John.  He wants him.  And he <em> is </em> beautiful—stunning really.  A lean, pale canvas of soft skin, scattered with scars that represent a lifetime of close-calls and a fragility that’s been carefully hidden from the world.</p><p> </p><p>Sherlock says nothing, but his eyes rake over John’s form—memorizing him, perhaps, or deducing what he can from this unfamiliar expanse of flesh.  John stares right back.  When finally their gazes lock, Sherlock steps forward, palms gliding over the hard muscle of John’s biceps, across strong shoulders and up his neck.  He threads fingers through silver hair and carefully reclaims their connection, lips gently meeting John’s at last.  The kiss is chaste—a far cry from the desperate, fumbling embrace they’d shared in the garden.  This is a delicate affirmation, a soft reassurance.  <em> I want this.  I want you. </em></p><p> </p><p>Body aching, vibrating with the need to get closer, John finds himself drawn instantly back into Sherlock’s orbit, arms circling his waist as they each melt into this moment—gradually letting one another in as the kiss grows wild, unfettered, Sherlock gasping as he backs toward the bed, dropping down onto charcoal linens and pulling John along with him.  After a moment’s hesitation, John crawls up to straddle lithe, muscular thighs—settling into Sherlock’s lap, twisting fingers into familiar curls and letting himself get lost once more.</p><p> </p><p>Sherlock kisses as though he’d rather be nowhere else.  He holds back nothing—all traces of his practiced facade shed entirely, allowing the tender heart beneath to blaze brazenly through.  He kisses in a way that sends John spiraling wildly into the ether—the rest of the world falling away until it’s only the two of them—alight with the raw emotion that they’ve held inside for so <em> long, </em>coursing between them in frenzied currents and crackling, frenetic sparks—now that it’s been released at last.  </p><p> </p><p>His touch is charged—chaotic—fingertips sending shockwaves straight through John’s skin, as large hands roam freely over the humming expanse of his body.  </p><p> </p><p>John has never felt anything like this.  He’s never <em> loved </em> anyone like this.</p><p> </p><p>Sherlock wants to touch.  He wants to <em> be </em> touched—that much is clear.  It’s clear in the way he responds to each caress, each slide of tongue, each tug of fingers in his hair—it’s <em> intoxicating— </em> and John is quite drunk off the hunger that seeps from his every pore.  He’s too far gone to be entirely surprised when curious fingers slip beneath the confines of his pants, kneading into the swell of his bum and pulling him closer—leaving no room to question whether this is all a dream after all.</p><p> </p><p>John gasps, gut lurching as Sherlock moans breathily against his lips.  The sensations that this proximity brings are quite new—the feel of a rather impressive erection pressed against his own has his mind scrambling to catch up.  He breaks the kiss, leaning back slightly to meet Sherlock’s eye—to check in, really—a final goodbye to the careful distance they had come to know.  Staring resolutely into blackened depths, he sees unbridled affection, earnest desire—and an unspoken request for John to take control.</p><p> </p><p>Pressing his lips briefly to Sherlock’s cheek, he kisses slowly down his jaw, sucking lightly on his hammering pulse point—heart surging when Sherlock moans helplessly, fingers tightening around John’s arse.  Having the ability to elicit such reactions from this brilliant being feels impossible—feels <em> incredible. </em>  Emboldened, John lets his tongue trace a line up Sherlock’s neck, reaching down between them to firmly stroke a palm up his shaft where it strains against his tight black pants.</p><p> </p><p>The response is immediate and immense—Sherlock’s body coming alive in a way that would have dislodged John entirely if broad hands weren’t still clutching him close. He releases John’s bum to blaze a trail up his spine instead, tugging at his hair until John leans back.  Lips and teeth and tongue—barely a moment to process the hard, frantic kiss before Sherlock is falling back, pulling John along on top of him.</p><p> </p><p>They both groan, John panting against his cheek as they adjust to this new position.  John shifts his hips experimentally and nearly passes out from the overwhelming swell of arousal that floods through him.  Every nerve in his body is searing—every ounce of adoration he feels for the man beneath him pouring out through frantic kisses and frenzied touch.  Knowing full well that this won’t last much longer, he tucks his face into the curve of Sherlock’s neck and begins a steady thrust.</p><p> </p><p>The long arms wrapped around his back tighten, fingers threaded through his hair clinging desperately.  The lithe body beneath him moves to match his momentum, a choir of eager gasps and urgent groans between them as the force of their writhing forms builds toward a crescendo.</p><p> </p><p>When Sherlock comes, his shouts vibrate through John like a resonant symphony—body stilling, grip tightening, then falling away all together as he sinks languidly into the bed.  When John follows, he wraps Sherlock in his arms, back arching and hips thrusting wildly as he releases a decade of tension—of longing and denial—in a single strangled shout against the shoulder of his best friend.</p><p> </p><p>∙</p><p> </p><p>John’s world has gone momentarily dark, lost to himself and to everything else.  He gradually resurfaces when gentle hands begin a slow sweep up and down his back—warming him against the slight evening chill that has crept into the room through the open window.  He finds that he’s sobbing quietly, shoulders shaking and face still tucked safely into the crook of Sherlock’s neck.  </p><p> </p><p>Inhaling deeply, he extricates his hands and falls to the side, wrapping himself around the body beside him and tilting his head back to meet pale grey eyes.</p><p> </p><p>The tears that he finds there are unexpected—as is the open expression of relief in the watery pools staring back at him.  He leans in, lightly meeting the lips of this pure, freehearted creature—bringing a hand up to rest along the curve of his jaw.  Sherlock sighs, turning into the touch and pressing several final kisses to John’s palm, before turning his body toward him and burying his face in fine silver hair.</p><p> </p><p>The last thought John has as he slips softly into sleep, is that he will do anything—anything at all—to keep this.</p><p> </p><p>◒</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0021"><h2>21. Twenty One</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I started and abandoned this chapter three times!  I still don't know if it's any good!  I'm losing steam!  SOS!  </p><p>No but really this ended up being more soft smut.  Domesticity and household duties will resume in the next chapter (don't you dare think that I've forgotten about that slide installation).  </p><p>Enjoy!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>◓</p><p> </p><p>John wakes gradually, consciousness rising slowly to the surface as he takes in his surroundings—the red glow of morning light through closed eyelids, birdsong drifting through the window with the breeze—warm breath against his neck and gentle fingers tracing a relentless figure eight over the skin above his belly button.  <em> Infinity, </em> John thinks, smiling to himself.  <em> Forever. </em></p><p> </p><p>“Joining me anytime soon?”  Sherlock rumbles directly into his ear, sending a sharp wave of heat straight down John’s spine.  His grin broadens, eyes drifting open as he rolls his head to the side to meet clever grey eyes.  “There you are,”  Sherlock says, flashing a smirk and ceasing his figure eights—instead rubbing a hand back and forth over John’s belly, fingers skimming through fine blonde hairs.  John sighs, relief flooding his limbs, unbidden but welcome.  He’d fallen asleep vowing to do whatever it takes to keep the connection that had surged between them last night—certain that the open, trusting version of Sherlock he was finally allowed to meet would be gone once morning arrived.  </p><p> </p><p>Not the case, as it turns out.  He’s right here—lying nose to nose beside him, hand roaming John's body without a trace of doubt.</p><p> </p><p>“Hi,”  He breathes, watching as Sherlock’s eyes search his own, one corner of his beautiful bloody mouth tugging upward sheepishly.  John feels his heart rate rise to a gallop as they lie watching one another, silently reliving what they’d shared the night before.</p><p> </p><p>Sherlock slides a hand up John's chest, his neck—lingering for a moment along his jaw before combing long fingers through silver hair, nails dragging lightly over his scalp.  He leans in, lips meeting John’s softly, briefly, then in one swift motion rolls right on top of him, the full weight of his body pinning John to the sheets.  All his breath leaves him in a huff, followed by a fit of giggles—because this is ridiculous.  Sherlock is <em> ridiculous. </em>  And John is fairly certain that he’s never felt so content in his life.  He runs his palms slowly up Sherlock’s back, learning the lines of his body, tracing long scars draped over soft skin—reminders of a time when he couldn’t be there, couldn’t save him.  But he’s here now—always will be, if he can help it.</p><p> </p><p>Sherlock’s lips move against John’s neck, arms tucked beneath his shoulders, fingers still woven into short silver hair.  Tugging lightly on mussed curls until he lifts his head, John kisses him hard—sharing this immense relief, this gratitude and reverence—the riotous swell of love that churns within his chest.  Sherlock seems to dissolve into him entirely, responding in a way that has John lost once again.  </p><p> </p><p>It’s incredible, this—such a simple action, one that John has performed many times with many people.  Occasionally memorable, usually enjoyable, but never <em> this. </em>  Here, now—it leaves him entirely oblivious to all else—existing only within the hollows of their mouths, registering naught but the tongue that slides languidly against his own, the taste of the man who’s turned his world upside down and the way his body comes alive beneath him.</p><p> </p><p>Bracketing narrow hips with strong thighs, John wraps his legs around Sherlock’s restless form.  He’s begun a languorous grind—torturous, really—and John finds himself wondering if there’s anything he <em> wouldn’t </em> do with this man.  He’s already in a position he’d never quite imagined for himself, never really one to submit.  But <em> this </em> —Sherlock above him, moving gracefully against his body, breaths mingled and hearts racing in tandem—doesn’t feel like submission at all.  It feels like—well, <em> union. </em>  In the truest sense of the word.  And if that isn’t the most despicably romantic thought he’s ever had, he doesn’t know what is.</p><p> </p><p>Grinning against Sherlock’s lips, John rolls them over, lying face to face on their sides once more.  Without hesitation, he tucks fingertips into the waistband of tight black pants and pulls back slightly to look at the man in front of him.</p><p> </p><p>“Okay?”  He breathes, wanting to be sure.  Sherlock swallows, nodding and pressing his mouth to John’s forehead, sighing shakily against his skin.  John takes him in hand a bit awkwardly, emboldened by the quiet gasp his touch elicits, and begins a slow, steady stroke.  The drawn out moan pulled from somewhere deep in Sherlock’s chest resonates through John, rattling his rather dwindling sense of control and quickening his long, firm pulls.  </p><p> </p><p>It still feels surreal, being allowed into this realm of Sherlock’s world—experiencing these things—some of them for the first time—together.  John doesn’t actually know what he’s doing—the angle is odd and he hasn’t yet learned what Sherlock likes—but it hardly matters.  It feels as though the presence of the other is all either of them really needs just now.</p><p> </p><p>When eventually Sherlock gasps and bats his hand away, he doesn’t protest—gladly allowing him to press them both together within the circle of one large hand.  John can only whine desperately, panting and clutching on to thrusting hips, overwhelmed with sensation as they move together effortlessly.  </p><p> </p><p>It takes but a moment for Sherlock to tip over the edge, spilling between them with a drawn out shout and pulling John along after him with clever fingers.  When his vision restores itself and his body feels capable of motion once more, John opens his eyes to find Sherlock sound asleep beside him.  Grinning at the rare sight, he tidies them both with last night’s discarded t-shirt and curls up against his chest, pulling the green plaid blanket up over their sated bodies.</p><p> </p><p>Wrapping Sherlock up in his arms and settling in for a mid-morning kip, John tucks his face into wayward curls and traces figure eights over the scars on his skin.</p><p> </p><p>◒</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>∞</p><p>If you've got any positivity to spare plz drop some in a comment.  Same goes for any other WIPs you happen to be reading right now.  It's so motivational to hear from y'all, and we could all use a little m o t i v a t i o n.  xo</p><p>ALSO, if you're reading this and also writing Sherlock fic/seeking feedback, point me toward your story, I'd love to read it.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0022"><h2>22. Twenty Two</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hi!  Been awhile.  </p><p>This is another chapter that I rewrote like three times because it just didn’t feel right.  Tried to move the plot along several times and failed.  And so, we ended up with...you guessed it.  More soft smut.  </p><p>I’m sorry (I’m not actually, at all).  Have just accepted that they can’t take their hands off each other and have used it as an opportunity to practice writing about sex in a candid way while trying to maintain the emotion.  Did I succeed?  No idea.  Didn’t plan for three chapters of smut in a row but here we are.</p><p> </p><p>Enjoy?</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>◓</p><p><br/>When he wakes for the second time this morning, John finds himself entirely enveloped by two long arms, his own tucked up comfortably between his chest and Sherlock’s.  He’s not sure he’s ever felt quite so small, even after years of Sherlock towering over him—he’s always felt that <em>he</em> is the protector, the shield, knowing full well that stature hasn’t got much to do with strength.  But Sherlock is strong too, and there’s no denying that the feeling of security this position brings is something he could get used to—a physical representation of the sudden turn his life has taken.  Secure.  Safe, even—to an extent.  He sighs, stretching his spine and then settling back in against the warm body in front of him.  </p><p> </p><p>“John,” Sherlock whispers, tightening his grip and squeezing the breath right out of him—shaking loose yet another point of tension that John has been holding onto for a solid decade.  That’s been happening a lot lately—old knots loosening and unspooling each time Sherlock demonstrates his comfort with this new closeness, the relative ease with which they’ve slipped into it.  John groans contentedly, muscles melting under Sherlock’s firm hold as he snakes an arm around his narrow waist.  Perhaps he’s always wanted this—to be allowed to be vulnerable—to be held with such affection.  It’s really rather nice.  “You smell <em> awful,” </em>  Sherlock adds, voice thick with amusement.  John snorts, giggling as he futilely tries to squirm away.  Sherlock only tightens his arms further and hitches a leg over John’s hip, effectively trapping him.  “Truly offensive—absolutely vile,” He whispers against John’s temple, pressing lips to his forehead.</p><p> </p><p>To be fair, he isn’t wrong.  The scent of their mingled sweat and morning breath is lingering in the air around them, but it’s hardly an intrusion.  On the contrary, it’s a welcome dose of reality—this is still happening, they really are here.</p><p> </p><p>“Your fault,” He whispers back, tilting his head up to meet Sherlock’s eyes and grinning helplessly at what he sees there.  That playful glint is something John has rarely seen directed at him in recent years.  At some point it had been replaced by barely concealed uncertainty, carefully guarded doubt—and probably a bit of boredom.  </p><p> </p><p>But Sherlock had that look in his eye often when they’d first met—when everything was easy—when they’d fallen into step side by side and thought they’d have all the time in the world to work out the complex feelings they inspired in each other.  It’s the look he’d given John each time he announced that <em> the game is on </em>—each time he’d allowed John to see exactly how glad he was to have him by his side.</p><p> </p><p>Swallowing around the lump growing steadily in his throat, John leans up to kiss Sherlock’s slightly stale lips.  The day is fully upon them now—they’ll have to rise soon.  John almost certainly owes Molly several apologies for whatever was said to convince her to keep Rosie overnight—and they’ve still got boxes to unpack and a bloody <em> slide </em> to install—</p><p> </p><p>“Bath?”  Sherlock asks, grinning back at John as though he can read his mind.  Another wave of giggles escapes as he imagines the two of them trying to fit into that ridiculous blue tub.</p><p> </p><p>“Not a chance,” He breathes through his glee, taking advantage of Sherlock’s momentary distraction to roll on top of him.  “Shower though,” John kisses the smirk from his lips and jumps up, grabbing the towel draped over the chair by the door and heading for the loo, knowing that Sherlock will follow.</p><p> </p><p>∙</p><p> </p><p>Standing outside the glass partition and staring into the steaming spray he’s just switched on, John can’t stop his mind from drifting toward everything that hasn’t yet been said.  Now that he’s left the safety of their bed (is it even <em> their </em> bed?) he’s not entirely sure how to proceed.</p><p> </p><p>He finds himself once again wrapped up by two long arms as Sherlock approaches from behind and moulds himself to John’s back, the fingers of his right hand drifting through the fine hairs on his belly—something he seems to enjoy.  John smiles.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re having doubts,” Sherlock rumbles against his cheek, placing a small kiss there in the wake of his words.  John shakes his head, leaning back into Sherlock’s chest and covering his restless fingers with his own.</p><p> </p><p>“Not doubts,” He says quietly, wanting to get this right.  “Not at all,” He turns around to look up at him properly, taking both of his hands and squeezing tightly when he sees the slight unease etched across his face.  “It’s just hit me that I don’t know what you want—what you expect from me moving forward.  I want to know your boundaries so I don’t overstep,” <em> because you’ve never done this, never had this before, </em> he doesn’t say—quite frankly, he’s terrified that he’ll overwhelm him with everything that a relationship generally entails.</p><p> </p><p>Is he allowed to touch him whenever he feels like reaching out?  What about in front of others?  Can he kiss him any time?  Take his hand whenever he craves that connection?  Is Sherlock okay with their friends and families knowing that they’re together in this way?  And even now, when it’s just the two of them—he’s unsure what’s allowed.  He’s followed Sherlock’s lead so far, letting things unfold naturally between them.  And it’s been brilliant—better than he could have possibly hoped for.  But now that they’ve managed to open the floodgates, how do they navigate the flood?</p><p> </p><p>“You want to have a conversation about sex?” Sherlock asks, brows raised and a smile playing around his lips.  John can’t help but grin back at him.  He’s aware that his timing is a bit questionable.</p><p> </p><p>“Well, yes.  Sex and the rest of it—“</p><p> </p><p>“Does it have to be right <em> now?” </em>  Sherlock interjects, stepping back and removing his pants in one swift motion, tossing them casually to the floor.  John laughs, shaking his head.</p><p> </p><p>“No,”  He says, standing frozen in place as Sherlock approaches, not missing the fact that he's already quite hard.  “Definitely not,”  Long fingers tug at his waistline and he rolls his eyes, stepping out of his own rather filthy pants and letting himself be maneuvered into the shower.</p><p> </p><p>When Sherlock kisses him now, it feels like reassurance.  It feels like <em> you’re overthinking this </em> and <em> I want you always </em> and <em> touch me, please. </em>  So John does.  He lets his palms glide up Sherlock’s back, once again tracing the long scars that mar his pale skin.  He’s aware that he’s rather drawn to them, now that he’s allowed to be—as though his touch alone can erase each memory of solitude, of pain.  His hands slide up into slick curls, forward to cup Sherlock’s face through vehement kisses, and eventually back down his chest, thumbs circling peaked nipples.  Sherlock moans, pressing John back against the wall, directly beneath the powerful spray above.  He gasps as his back hits the tile, opening his eyes and grinning up at an entirely drenched Sherlock, dark curls plastered artfully to his skin.</p><p> </p><p>John turns them sideways, a bit out of the torrential downpour, and reaches for Sherlock’s posh shampoo, figuring they may as well actually bathe while they’re here.  Sherlock smirks, leaning forward slightly so that John can comb slick fingers through his hair, massaging his scalp and laughing quietly as he melts beneath his ministrations.</p><p> </p><p>John quickly shampoos his own short hair and returns his palms to Sherlock’s body, everything feeling suddenly more urgent as his darkened eyes grow fierce.  Broad hands are everywhere, smoothing over John’s shoulders, gripping his arms, pulling his face back into a hard, heated kiss.  The steaming air around them has grown stifling—heady and charged—Sherlock’s erection presses firmly against John’s hip, and he leans back to look at him.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes?”  Sherlock breathes, eyes seeking confirmation.  John can only stare up at him, chest heaving, heart soaring.  He can hardly believe how easy this is—how eager Sherlock is to explore it.  He can’t remember the last time he’d had sex three times in a twelve hour period—it’s been well over a decade, certainly.  As much as John has always craved the closeness of others, the feeling of someone else’s skin beneath his palms—sex was always a bit of a chore.  He’s dated more women than he can count but he never really <em> knew </em> any of them.  He never really wanted to.  Even the person he’d chosen to marry was a stranger to him in the end.  But Sherlock—</p><p> </p><p>“Yes,”  He presses his lips to a bony shoulder, slides his hands down to grasp his arse.  “Of course, yes,” This is new, fingers kneading affectionately into the swell of his best friend’s bum.  Their difference in height is less of a hindrance than John had imagined it may be.  Their hips line up just fine, his head at a perfect level to tuck into the crook of Sherlock’s neck—which he now does, breathing him in as Sherlock takes them both in hand once more.</p><p> </p><p>It feels incredible to be pressed against another man, to be engulfed in his large, slick hand.  The sensations are glorious, but it’s the knowledge of who he’s with that nearly turns John inside out each time they come together like this.  The emotion that roars through him, crashing against his ribcage and flooding outward to awaken each limb, body buzzing and alive.  He wonders when this will stop feeling surreal—if it will ever stop feeling like an impossible gift.  He hadn’t known that sex could be like this—could feel like this.  He wasn’t aware that these ordinary actions could become so <em> much. </em></p><p> </p><p>They come nearly simultaneously this time, John crying out into Sherlock’s neck as their bodies still against one another, spilling over their bellies as they melt into each other’s skin.  Sherlock rests his forehead against John’s shoulder and sighs, groaning quietly when strong arms lock tightly around his slender waist.</p><p> </p><p>“Love you,” John whispers, voice barely audible over the still-roaring shower.  The words come easily now—he wonders vaguely why it was ever so difficult for them when the feeling was always there.</p><p> </p><p>Sherlock kisses his neck twice, sighing again before standing up straight and kissing him properly.  They move beneath the water once more, letting it wash all evidence from their bodies and down the drain.</p><p> </p><p>“We’ll talk tonight,”  Sherlock says quietly as he runs the towel through his hair, then tosses it to John.  “But as far as boundaries go, I’m not sure that I have any with you,”  John rolls his eyes, grinning and feeling warm all over.  He doesn’t find that entirely impossible to believe—Sherlock’s idea of boundaries has always been more lax than the average human’s.  But he remains certain that they’ll need to have a conversation—to decide what’s next for them, to maintain the open communication they’d worked so hard to achieve.  </p><p> </p><p>Sherlock strides toward the doorway, but pauses with his hand on the knob.  He takes a step back toward John, grasping his face in his hands and kissing him deeply but briefly.  “I love you, too,” He says, disappearing into the hall.</p><p> </p><p>◒</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0023"><h2>23. Twenty Three</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>◓</p><p> </p><p>“John,”  Reluctantly tearing his eyes away from where Rosie and Sherlock are clutching each other's arms and laughing at the bottom of their new—still rather novel—slide, John turns to meet Molly’s inquiring gaze.  “A word?”  She nods toward the French doors that lead to the back garden.  </p><p> </p><p>He’d called her this morning after they’d managed to get dressed (though another half hour was lost to a thoroughly distracting snog on Sherlock’s bed).  She’d asked no questions, made no clever comments, only agreed to bring Rosie home at three o’clock—<em> after </em> everything had been installed and the chaos and power tools had vacated the cottage, thank you very much.  She had been visibly impressed and coolly complimentary as she wandered around the house, taking it all in—but hadn’t asked a single question about the absolutely ridiculous (but surprisingly beautiful) custom copper slide wrapped around their spiral staircase, which should have been John’s next clue that this was coming.  Molly is rarely so reticent these days.  He sighs, following her outside, sharing a knowing look with Sherlock as he walks past their still-giggling forms.</p><p> </p><p>“What’s up?”  He asks, feigning ignorance as they reach the creek.  She turns to face him, eyebrows raised.</p><p> </p><p>“Is it what I think it is, then?”  Her tone is carefully controlled, a stark contrast to her usual rather endearing stream of nonsense.  John crosses his arms, staring down at the water.</p><p> </p><p>“Mm?” It could be nice to speak to someone else about this—and Molly has been an incredible friend to him ever since Rosie entered their lives.  Surely Sherlock wouldn’t mind her knowing—he adores her, truly.  Everything had become so much easier between them once she and Greg found their way to one another—Sherlock was able to let go of the guilt and discomfort he’d felt in her presence at last.  And perhaps she has some insight—after all, her situation isn’t so dissimilar from his.  She and Greg had been friends for years—had watched from a distance as each of their attempted relationships (and in Greg’s case, marriage) failed—always something there between them, but never properly acknowledged.  Their time had finally come about a year and a half ago, and they’d quickly found that they shared<em> the sort of bond most of us can only dream to find in a lifetime</em>, as Mrs. H. would say.</p><p> </p><p>“John,” An edge of impatience in her voice, now.  He smiles, still not meeting her eye.  Obviously she suspects.  He wonders what Sherlock had said to her last night.  He pictures him now, puttering around in his new laboratory after John had retreated outside to lie in the grass.  At some point he’d made the decision to text Molly—to ask for more time.  Time alone, no obligations—time to show John the letter, to find their way past that final barrier.  There are certainly no barriers now—no boundaries at all, if Sherlock is to be believed.  <em> Sod it, </em> John thinks, turning to face her.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah—yes,”  He says, with a nod.  “It’s what you think,”  He watches as her eyes go wide, expression shifting from exasperated to slightly disbelieving to beyond elated in the span of a second.</p><p> </p><p>“You—<em> John,” </em>   She breathes, grasping his shoulders.  “You’re serious?”  He rolls his eyes, nods once more.  “Oh my god,”  Her eyes dart to the window, where Sherlock and Rosie are doing a spectacularly bad job of spying—crouched beneath the sill, their contrasting sets of curls each perfectly visible in the light of day.  Molly bursts into laughter, throwing her arms around John’s neck and laughing some more.  “Oh my god,”  She says, again.  <em> “Finally.” </em></p><p> </p><p>John half expects Sherlock to appear at his side to pry her off—he’d proven himself the possessive type time and time again—back when John was still kidding himself into thinking he needed someone else.  But now he only smirks at him through the window, rising to shuffle Rosie back for another go on the slide.</p><p> </p><p>When Molly lets go at last, she instantly drops down to sit cross-legged in the grass, patting the space beside her.  John joins, honestly grateful to continue this conversation.</p><p> </p><p>“What’s it been like?”  She asks quietly.  “After all this time?”  John lets out the breath he’d been holding, lying back.  He folds one arm beneath his head, the other draped carelessly over his waist, closing his eyes and searching for adequate words.  He’s hardly been able to process it at all, but—<em> good </em> comes to mind.  <em> Incredible.  Beautiful.  Deeply intense. </em></p><p> </p><p>“Surreal,”  Is what slips out.  He opens his eyes to find her watching him curiously.  “I can hardly believe it, Molly,”  She gives him an understanding smile, then lies down beside him.</p><p> </p><p>“He talks to me, you know.  About you, I mean,”  This is certainly news to John.  He can’t imagine Sherlock speaking to anyone—aside from his trusted therapist—about much of anything regarding <em> sentiment. </em>   John rolls his head to the side, eyebrows raised in an invitation to continue.  “Only since Mrs. Hudson died, really.  He began stopping by the morgue a bit more often, while you were out doing the shopping or whatever it is you get up to,”  She grins at him, knowing full well that he doesn’t get up to anything at all—he’s about as interesting as a stale crisp, these days.  “The first time he brought it up, he asked me how I found the courage to talk to Greg.  <em> You aren’t exactly known for being audacious, </em> is what he said,” She lets out a huff of laughter, rolling her eyes.  “I just told him that it felt right.  That it was time.  And it was easy, in the end,”  John smiles.  He remembers Greg calling him the next day, demanding they go for a pint and then grinning like a fool the entire evening, shaking his head and saying repeatedly that he felt like the luckiest bastard in London.  </p><p> </p><p>“He told me you kissed him,” She whispers, turning on her side to face him, the atmosphere around them shifting into something much heavier in an instant.  “Not that first day, but—eventually.  I had to drag it out of him.  He said it had happened a while back—that he’d panicked and ruined everything.  He thought you’d leave,”  John runs a hand over his face.  He didn’t realize she knew about that.  Sherlock thought <em> he’d </em> ruined everything—that <em> John </em> would leave?  John had spent the following months thinking the same—certain that he’d overstepped entirely—that it would be the thing to finally break their precarious relationship.  He’d also had to nurse his emotional wounds, to learn to accept the rejection.  It was a complicated time.</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll never leave,” He finds himself saying—voice firm, unyielding.  “Even if we hadn’t—I’ll never leave him.”</p><p> </p><p>“I know that,” Her tone is gentle, kind without a hint of condescension.  “He knows it too, now.  He just wasn’t ready to accept it,”  She hesitates for a moment before continuing in a hush.  “He doesn’t think that he deserves you,” John’s heart sinks.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah—I’ve—recently been made aware,”  He rasps, swallowing thickly as Mrs. Hudson’s words scroll through his mind like a bloody neon marquee:  <em> You’re as deserving as anyone, perhaps moreso. </em>  “If anyone is undeserving, it’s me.  He’s given me everything, and I’ve—” He cuts himself off when Molly rests a hand on his bicep, turning to meet her empathetic brown eyes.</p><p> </p><p>“You both deserve this.  And John—you forget, I think, what he was like,”  She pauses, carefully selecting her words.  “You’ve always seen the good in him, from the very start.  But he’s been rather—unkind—throughout his life.  Thoughtless, maybe, is the word.  Selfish.  I’m sure people gave him plenty of reasons not to trust them, but—”  She sighs, rolling back to stare up at the sky.  “Before you, he was an island.  Cold and aloof.  Self-serving and rude.  And now look at him,”  She turns her head to grin at John.  “Look at this place.  It’s like a bloody shrine to everything you are to him.  Warmth and strength and stability—it’s so lovely, John,”  She squeezes his arm, where her hand still rests.  “I know that you—<em> neither </em> of you—has been perfect, but none of us have.  Believe me, Greg and I have our doubts and quarrels as well, but I wouldn’t trade him for anything.  And you two belong to each other.  You’ve bettered one another.  And you’ve already gotten through the worst of it,”  She inhales deeply, having used up her breath on that impromptu rant, then lets it out as a shaky laugh.  “I’m so glad for you,”  She breathes, smile widening.  “And for Sherlock.  You’re a good man, John,” Fighting the sudden prickle of tears, John clears his throat, closes his eyes.  He’d needed to hear that.  Needed the perspective.  He smiles as he hears the back door open, the sound of tiny feet hurriedly slapping the brick pathway.</p><p> </p><p>“Thank you, Molly,”  He says quietly, bracing for impact as Rosie predictably jumps right onto his belly, rolling into the space between them and immediately snuggling up to Molly.  Traitor.  He opens his eyes just in time to see Sherlock flop down beside him at an angle, dropping his head unceremoniously against John’s chest and reaching for his hand, easily tangling their fingers together despite their audience of two.  There’s one question about boundaries answered, then.</p><p> </p><p>“You didn’t tell him about the thing, did you?”  Sherlock asks, tilting his head in Molly’s general direction.  She giggles knowingly.</p><p> </p><p>“Of course not.”</p><p> </p><p>“Good,”  He says with finality.  John knows that he’s being teased—knows that particular tone of voice all too well—but curiosity is getting the better of him.</p><p> </p><p>“Hang on—what’s this?”  His grin can be heard in his words, and Molly lets out another quiet chuckle.  Sherlock only rolls inward, tucking his nose into John’s armpit as John’s fingers automatically begin a slow sweep along his spine.  “Tell me, you prat.”</p><p> </p><p>“Never,”  Sherlock mutters into the crook of his arm, shuffling closer and exhaling dramatically.  John knows a lost cause when he sees one.  They can have their little secret.  He glances down at Rosie, who’s stretched out against Molly’s side—probably exhausted after hours of running up the staircase and careening down the slide.  When he meets Molly’s eye, they share a smile.  She looks pointedly at the sprawl of curls against John’s chest, then back at him, eyebrows raised.  He can only grin like an idiot, sliding his hand up to brush gently through them as he savours this feeling of contentment, of peace—surrounded by the peculiar little family he’s somehow managed to hold onto.  Sighing, he lets his eyes drift shut.</p><p> </p><p>◒</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I never see the Molly/John friendship explored, so I wanted to try throwing that in the mix.  Love the idea that they've become besties over the years...seems likely considering her involvement in Rosie's life from the start.  &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0024"><h2>24. Twenty Four</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Greg Lestrade has entered the chat.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>◓</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Buggering <em> fuck.” </em></p>
<p> </p>
<p><em> “Greg,” </em> Molly hisses, shoving him none-too-gently through the door.  “Rosie is right there.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“She’s on the bloody slide.  There’s a bloody <em> slide,” </em>  He throws his hands up weakly and lets them drop at his sides, whirling around to face John as he closes the front door behind them.  He’d gone with Molly to meet Greg out front, and now he’s quite glad he did.  He can’t help but feel that Lestrade’s first reaction to their slightly odd new home is much more satisfying than Molly’s controlled enthusiasm.  “Christ, those windows look like something out of Neverland.  Where the hell am I?” John just shakes his head, laughing quietly.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><em> “Stop,” </em> Molly pleads, glaring at Greg’s baffled expression and disheveled grey hair, a fond smirk threatening to shatter her illusion of disapproval.  They all look up abruptly at a sudden movement on the loft, gazing in amusement as Sherlock spirals elegantly down the slide, leaping off the end with a flourish and scooping Rosie up into his arms.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Lestrade,”  He nods, shifting their increasingly sleepy offspring to perch on his hip, her head immediately dropping to his shoulder.  The doorbell rings, filling the expansive room with a dramatic chime.  “That’ll be the Thai.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>∙</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“What’re you going to do with the Baker Street flats?” Greg asks through a mouthful of Som Tum.  John glances at Sherlock, feeling his stomach flutter a bit.  They haven’t talked about this at all—he’s been hesitant to bring it up, knowing full well that it’s a difficult topic.  Trust Greg to toss it out there without a second thought.  Sherlock meets John’s slightly panicked gaze briefly before glaring down at his barely touched Pad Thai.  The air around them grows uncomfortably quiet, and John is about to clumsily change the subject when Sherlock looks at him again and then clears his throat.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I’ve—got something in the works,”  He says, shifting uncomfortably against the worn leather sofa.  “There’s still much to do, but—I suppose I’m—”  He sighs, setting his plate on the floor in front of him.  “I’m planning on converting the flats into a halfway house for substance abuse recovery,”  The silence that follows is stifling, each of them a bit blindsided.  Eventually, Greg coughs, having choked on whatever he was chewing, and Molly slaps him on the back.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You didn’t tell me,”  John says quietly, eyes wide.  When did Sherlock begin doing unbelievably thoughtful, massively selfless things without letting anyone know what he was up to?  The answer to that fleeting question slams into John with the force of a rooftop fall and two subsequent years of misery.  He carefully maneuvers Rosie’s sleeping form from his lap to the sofa beside him, then slides along the leather cushion until he and Sherlock are pressed together thigh to thigh, wrapping the man’s nearest hand in both of his own.  “It’s a brilliant idea,”  John adds, watching relief begin to bloom across Sherlock’s sharp features.  Did he think that John would object?</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I’ve discussed it with Joel,”  He mumbles.  John nods.  Dr. Joel Fleischman has been Sherlock’s therapist for the last three years and is admittedly a rather lovely bloke, despite being tragically American.  He’s helped them through their lowest points and brought open communication to their once-strained relationship.  “As well as some of the homeless network.  Many of them have been through rehabilitation and have spent time in places like the one I hope to create.  They’ve got a perspective on the matter that I’m grateful to have.  Joel has given me some useful contacts to work out the details of opening a non-profit, as well as staffing it of course—but I—I’d planned on discussing it with you before I set anything in stone.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Baker Street is yours, Sherlock.  I’m more than happy to help with whatever you decide to do—and really I can’t think of a better way to use the space—but you don’t need my permission to move forward,”  Sherlock scowls, and John finds himself lifting his brow in confusion.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“It’s <em> ours. </em>  She left it to us.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Your name is on the deed.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Irrelevant, John.  She left it to <em> us,” </em>   This is the first he’s heard of any intention on Mrs. Hudson’s part to include him in the will.  He loved her as though they were blood, and he knows the feeling was mutual—but she and Sherlock have <em> history. </em>  He’d been there back when she’d needed him most—helped her to find freedom, given her a new start.  Sherlock sighs, exasperated.  “You’ve read the letter,”  He adds quietly, gently squeezing John’s fingers and peering back at him, willing him to understand.  John thinks back to her words, her steadfast certainty that they belonged together—</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Sorry—”  Greg cuts in, effectively bursting the bubble that had formed around the two of them.  “Are you two…?”  John’s awareness of their current position comes rushing in.  He glances down at their joined hands and then back up at Lestrade, realizing he hadn’t even thought twice about reaching out to Sherlock the second he seemed even slightly distressed.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Oh—um—”  He’s not at all sure why he feels so wrong-footed.  Of course Greg would find out soon enough anyway.  It occurs to him now that he <em> wants </em> him to know—wants <em> everyone </em> to know—immediately, if not sooner.  A swell of pride rises unbidden in his chest at the thought of announcing their partnership.  He is fiercely proud of what they have.  Always has been.  But now—</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He turns to meet amused grey eyes, smiling at what he sees there.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Obviously,”  Sherlock snaps, turning to Greg as he drops John’s hand, wedging an arm around his waist instead.  “Honestly, Lestrade, do you need me to solve this one for you as well?  It’s always been a wonder that you’ve got the audacity to call yourself a detective, but<em> this—” </em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>“All right, all right, my god,”  Greg laughs, holding his hands up in surrender.  “Christ, I’m about to have a bloody heart attack, give me a minute,”  He looks between the two of them, smile nearly splitting his face in two.  “You’ve got me struck a bit dumb here,”  Sherlock rolls his eyes.  “How did this happen, then?”  </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“It was time,”  Sherlock says.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>◒</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Dr. Joel Fleischman is from Northern Exposure (a brilliant american show from the 90s that I grew up with and is forever ingrained in my brain) and is also Sherlock's therapist in one of my other stories.  He's a cute New York Jew who spent some time in Alaska.  It doesn't make sense to throw him into this world, but he's who I pictured sitting across from Sherlock in a leather wingback, helping him through life's mysteries (and John's) so here we are.  &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0025"><h2>25. Twenty Five</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>◓</p><p> </p><p>It’s too warm for a fire.  It’s probably too warm for tea, too, but that won’t stop John from setting the kettle to boil and leaning against the worktop, watching Sherlock as he messes about with the massive red brick fireplace on the opposite wall.  It’s practically ritual for them, at this point.  Fire in the grate and tea in hand—two small comforts that they seek each time they sit down for a proper chat.  Two small points of warmth.</p><p> </p><p>Molly and Greg lingered until well after sunset.  John had gone upstairs to put Rosie down and returned (via staircase, he’s still a bit wary of the slide) to find Lestrade attempting (failing) to question Sherlock about the developments between them.  He was downright gleeful about it, by the look of him—leaned forward, elbows on knees, with Molly sat beside him—cautiously curious, as Sherlock crossed his arms and rolled his eyes.  John had quietly taken his spot on the sofa and reclaimed Sherlock’s hand.  <em> It’s good, </em> he’d said.  <em> And that’s all you’re going to get, so give it up. </em></p><p> </p><p>Sherlock has managed a small fire with the nearly diminished stack of chopped wood he’d found out back by the ramshackle greenhouse.  He glances up at John, looking rather smug, and they share a quick smile, John ducking his head to hide the extent of it.  <em> God, </em> he’s <em> happy. </em>  Actually happy.  Bloody euphoric, just standing here making tea.  They’re about to sit down and attempt to outline their blooming relationship—a conversation he’s never really had with anyone.  Not even his spurious wife.  This thing between them should be acknowledged as the rare and precious gift that it is.</p><p> </p><p>Two cups of tea in hand, he takes his place across from Sherlock in his familiar old chair.  He carefully sets the mugs on the small table they brought from Baker Street for precisely that purpose, and watches an unsurprisingly fidgety Sherlock for a bit before the man finally meets his eye.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m not sure where to begin,”  He rumbles, looking rather tense.  John sighs, still unable to wipe the smile entirely from his face.</p><p> </p><p>“Well, I only want to be sure that we’re on the same page.  There are a few things that aren’t clear to me, and I’d like to know where you stand.  And, Sherlock—whatever you decide, I’m fine with,” He hesitates, wanting to be clear.  “More than fine.  I’m—all of this has been—“ He huffs, exasperated with his own lack of eloquence.  But Sherlock nods, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly.</p><p> </p><p>“I know, John.  For me, as well,” John exhales slowly, wanting nothing more than to pull the sentimental sod into his lap and snog him stupid—but they really ought to get through this first.</p><p> </p><p>“I—well,” He takes a deep breath.  “I suppose the first thing we should consider is whether we’ll share a space—a—bed,” God, why is this so difficult?  <em> Honestly. </em>  “On a permanent basis.  Or if you’d prefer separate rooms,”  Sherlock rolls his eyes, then narrows them infinitesimally.  “It’s fine either way,” John rushes to add.  “Of course it is.  I’d just like to know.”</p><p> </p><p>“Are all of your talking points going to be this imbecilic?”  Sherlock asks, his tone teasing.  He crosses one leg over the other, relaxing into his chair at last and taking a deep, steadying breath before launching into a rather elaborate response.  “Really, John, what do you think?  Did you truly believe there was a chance I’d want to spend another night apart from you?  As I’ve told you, I want everything you’re willing to give.  I meant it when I said that I haven’t got any boundaries with you.  And before you ask—yes <em> obviously </em> I’m fine with our family and friends knowing we’ve added a romantic element to our already rather intimate relationship—not that they’d allow us any secrecy if we tried, as was demonstrated tonight.  I expect Mummy will be beside herself.  And as for the public—I’ve no intention of hiding anything.  If you’d like to make some sort of announcement you’re welcome to do so, but I’m not sure it’s necessary, as they’d convinced themselves we were an item long ago.  You’ve been wondering about initiating contact.  As far as I’m concerned, you can assume that the answer is always <em> yes. </em>  I’ve no problem speaking up if for whatever reason I’m opposed, and I know that the same is true for you,” He pauses, returning John's growing grin, as he carefully considers his next words.  “I’m—comfortable with the physical contact.  All of it.  But I find that my confidence falters when it comes to—well, sex.  But I think it’s been—good,” He’d lowered his gaze to his once again fidgeting fingers during that last bit, and now he glances up at John through dark lashes.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, Sherlock.  It’s been good,”  John agrees, laughing quietly.  “Bit of an understatement, from my end.  I—should tell you—I’ve—or well, I <em> hadn’t— </em> “  He shakes his head.  How to phrase this?  “You’re the first man I’ve been with.  It’s all new for me, too.  The emotional aspect as well—you’re—”  <em> the only person I’ve ever loved? </em>   Is that true?  Perhaps not, but this is certainly in another league—another <em> dimension </em>—from anything he’s experienced before.  “Anyway, it clearly doesn’t matter much that we’re both a bit out of our depth,” Sherlock gives him a small smirk.  John reaches for his tea to hide the flush on his cheeks.</p><p> </p><p>“No, I suppose not,” Sherlock studies him for a moment, and John suspects that he can see the question fighting its way to the forefront of his mind.  “You’re wondering if I’d been with anyone before you,”  That’s the one.  “The answer, I suppose, is technically yes.  One fumbling experiment in my youth with a classmate.  Hands, nothing more.  He never acknowledged it after that day, and I wrote it off as something not remotely worth my time,”  His gaze goes from unenthusiastically reminiscent to bloody intense in the span of a second.  “This—what we have between us, John—isn’t an experiment.  This is something that I will cherish,” John gives up on trying to keep his distance and shuffles his chair forward, each of them reaching out at once to clasp hands</p><p> </p><p>“It's never been like this for me, Sherlock.  I didn’t know that it <em> could </em> be like this,”  He laces their fingers together, reading the understanding on Sherlock’s features and finding it suddenly a bit easier to vocalize his thoughts.  “Um—another thing I feel should be said aloud while we’re on this topic,”  The doctor in him insists.  “We’re both clean.  Obviously, we’ve never discussed this.  But I have access to your charts and I know you’ve found your way to mine,” He’s opened his laptop on more than one occasion over the years to find his own medical records staring back at him.  “Just—if we—I just wanted to acknowledge that,”  Christ.  </p><p> </p><p>“Yes,” Sherlock nods slowly.  “I don’t know how these things generally progress, and I’m unaware of my preferences—but I expect that we’ll figure all that out,” John tightens his grip on Sherlock’s fingers, beyond relieved to have all this out in the open.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, we will.  There’s no timeline we need to follow—for any of this,”  He stands, tired of the space between them that felt so necessary ten minutes ago.  “Come on,”  He heads for the chesterfield nearest the fire, drops down sideways against the armrest and pulls Sherlock into the V of his legs, cocooning his gangly body against his chest.  John sighs under the warm weight of him, letting his fingers knead gently into the muscle of Sherlock’s shoulders.  He presses several small kisses to his temple as his eyes fall closed and a comfortable silence envelops them.</p><p> </p><p>“We can move the bed into the other room,”  Sherlock mumbles into John’s collarbone, just as he was beginning to doze.  “Larger.  And more convenient.”</p><p> </p><p>“Mm,”  He shifts as Sherlock turns a bit, lifting his head to softly meet John’s lips before curling further into his chest.  John smiles, pulling him closer and settling in.  “Tomorrow.”</p><p> </p><p>◒</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0026"><h2>26. Twenty Six</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>◓</p><p> </p><p>“Are you my boyfriend?”  John jumps at Sherlock’s words, sloshing the tea he’d been pouring into a puddle across the worktop and cursing quietly.  He’s bloody snuck up on him again.  Didn’t even hear him return from the Yard, where he’d been summoned by Lestrade.  He had insisted John stay home with Rosie rather than bother Molly <em> (It’s only a three, John.  I’ll have it worked out before you even begin to miss me) </em> so with the requisite bit of huffing and glaring, John did.  </p><p> </p><p>Rolling his eyes now, he turns to face the idiot—<em> his </em> idiot—finding him <em> right there, </em> hovering, his face a picture of earnest expectancy.  A real question, then.  John’s expression softens.</p><p> </p><p>“Well—yes?”  He tries, unsure what exactly he’s asking.  Sure, yes, boyfriends.  Not the term he uses in his head, or on the handful of occasions he’s had in the past two weeks since all this began, to refer to Sherlock as his <em> something.  Partner </em> has been the word of choice—though really John has thought of Sherlock as his partner for years.  Now they’re— <em> more </em> than that, and the word feels lacking.  But it’s the best he’s got, until—until.  An abrupt wave of giddy anxiety swells within John’s chest at the thought of <em> until </em>—of what he knows is possible for their future—what he wants desperately and is more than ready for.  Heart rate kicking up a notch, he allows a grin to spread slowly across his face.  “What’s brought this on, then?”</p><p> </p><p>“Sally,” Sherlock says simply, reaching his long limbs around John to pluck the freshly made cup of tea from the worktop, lifting it swiftly over John’s head and then cringing dramatically when he burns his tongue.</p><p> </p><p>“She’s always referred to me as your boyfriend,” John points out, turning to fix himself a new cup.  It’s true.  Donovan has never missed an opportunity to imply that they’re a couple, in her playfully snide way.  Her entire demeanor toward them has softened considerably over the past few years (in no small part because of Sherlock’s own transformation, John is sure) and she retired the ridiculous and cruel nicknames long ago.  But some things will never change.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, John, but now you <em> are,” </em>   John says nothing, plopping a tea bag into his mug and turning around once more.  He takes a moment to study Sherlock, who is fidgeting a bit, slowly turning the stolen cup of tea between long fingers, staring right back at John as though willing him to understand what he’s actually trying to ask.  John is at a loss.  Sherlock has never shown any sign of annoyance at the term, but John is quite certain that he doesn’t actually <em> like </em> it.  It doesn’t suit them.  <em> Boyfriend. </em>  Maybe if they were a decade (or two) younger.  But god, if he’d met Sherlock in his twenties he wouldn’t have had a clue what to do with him.</p><p> </p><p>“What’s on your mind, exactly?” He opts for a direct approach, watching as Sherlock sighs, setting the barely-touched tea back down and moving to lean against the worktop beside him. His eyes roam over the home that’s slowly becoming very much <em> theirs, </em> eventually landing on Rosie, where she sits curled up in his chair watching some shrill-voiced cartoon on the telly they’d purchased last weekend and installed beside the mantle.  John watches him watch her, basking in that familiar swell of affection he feels nearly every moment of every day lately.  He reaches up, resting his palm on the back of Sherlock’s neck, fingers gently kneading the tension away—something he’s begun to do often, now that he can.  A quiet reminder for both of them.  <em> Here we are. </em></p><p> </p><p>“You’ve composed a blog post about our relationship status, but have made no move to finalize it,”  He says matter-of-factly.  John stares up at him, surprised by this blunt statement.  It’s true that he’s been up in his study picking away at that post for the better part of a week, trying to find the right words to express everything that they are and what it means to him.  He wrote it mostly for himself—just to get it all out—unsure if Sherlock would even appreciate such sentiment being dropped out into the world.  He’s mentioned that he’s fine with an announcement of sorts, but also made it clear that he doubted it was even necessary—so John hasn’t made any real effort to actually post it.</p><p> </p><p>“And that concerns you?”</p><p> </p><p>“It doesn’t <em> concern </em> me,”  Sherlock huffs, shifting to meet John’s eye.  “Donovan doesn’t know about us.  No one seems to.  In an inexplicable turn of events that contradicts his every personality flaw, Lestrade hasn’t told a single soul at Scotland Yard that you and I are finally <em> shagging,” </em>   He says the word in a way that implies it leaves a sour taste on his tongue.  John grins.  Sherlock seems deeply frustrated by this, but it isn’t news to John.  They'd spent the last three days on a(n extremely disappointing and underwhelming) case and it was clear that none of Greg’s team had a clue they’d become romantically involved.  While admittedly the smug, proud part of him who still can’t believe he’s in an honest-to-god relationship with Sherlock Holmes desperately <em> wants </em> them to know, he’d had other things on his mind—like not getting shot by the gun-wielding, brainless bastard they’d been chasing across London.</p><p> </p><p>“Why didn’t you tell them, then?”  Honestly, he knows full well why Sherlock didn’t tell them.  It’s the same reason <em> he </em> hasn’t.  Neither of them are quite ready to face more of the undignified and unbridled enthusiasm that has been directed at them by the few people they’ve told.  Harry is still texting him daily, asking what it feels like to be <em> startlingly gay in every sense of the word. </em>  Mrs. Holmes has been relentless, pleading with them to bring Rosie for a visit in Penarth to celebrate.  John still doesn’t know what Sherlock told her—he must have called his parents in a moment of weakness (or perhaps even happiness) while he was loafing around in his laboratory last week, because John received a nearly hysterical phone call from a joyfully weeping Mummy as he was putting Rosie to bed.  Mycroft had sent them a lotus plant—the simple gesture and symbolism nearly bringing John to tears.  Not that it takes much these days.</p><p> </p><p>John is pulled from his reverie when Sherlock shifts, dislodging his hand from where it still rests on the back of his neck and turning to face him.  He immediately moves closer, dropping his head and tucking his face into the crook of John’s shoulder, sighing dramatically.</p><p> </p><p>“I want to,”  He mumbles, shuffling in as John automatically wraps his arms around the small of his back.   “I didn’t think I cared.  Didn’t think it mattered.  But it does, John.  I want to tell them—everyone—and I want to give this a name,”  He seems to hold his breath, then—a sure sign that he’s unsure how John will respond.</p><p> </p><p>“But you don’t like <em> boyfriend,” </em> John suggests quietly, his breath ruffling artfully arranged curls as his mind races to catch up with where his heart is heading—a path forward gradually making itself known.</p><p> </p><p>“Not especially,” Sherlock’s hands begin a slow sweep up and down John’s sides.  “Nor <em> lover </em> —it sounds—temporary.  Or a bit—sordid.  I suppose I could call you my partner—you <em> are </em> my partner—but it’s—“</p><p> </p><p>“How about husband?” John interrupts, a wave of calm certainty washing over him, his world narrowing down to this very point in space in time.  A crossroads.  An open doorway.  An opportunity for progress, for honesty.  He feels Sherlock go predictably still, large hands landing lightly on John’s hips and heart thudding against his chest.  He keeps his face hidden away in the curve of John’s neck, apparently waiting for more information—perhaps not quite trusting his own ears.  “How about,” John repeats, dragging his hands slowly up Sherlock’s back.  “You call me your husband?”</p><p> </p><p>After a seemingly eternal bout of silence, Sherlock carefully lifts his head and leans back to study John’s face, grey eyes darkened with emotion and darting obsessively over every line, each raised eyebrow and both quirked lips, before finally meeting John’s own.</p><p> </p><p>“You—want to <em> marry </em> me?”  He asks quietly, voice a bit brittle, as though he still wonders if he’s got it all wrong, has somehow misunderstood.  John aches to dissolve the confusion and doubt lurking beneath that question, would do anything to erase the years of pain that remain stubbornly wrapped around Sherlock’s fragile heart.</p><p> </p><p>“Of course I do,”  He leans up, kisses him hard, weaving fingers through dark curls in an effort to keep him close.  Closer.  Never close enough.  “Of course I bloody do, Sherlock,” John breathes against his lips, before letting him go, watching as he straightens his spine, standing at full height but remaining within John’s orbit.  “This is something I’ve thought about for a long, long time—longer than I care to admit.  It should have been you the first time ‘round—though I know that neither of us was ready for this then,” It’s still incredibly painful to consider how much they had to go through together to find their way here.  <em> So much lost time. </em>   “I’ve gotten a lot wrong, but this is—I’ve been waiting for the right moment, but this one is as good as any.  We’ve waited long enough,”  He takes a deep breath, realizing he hasn’t actually <em> asked </em> the question that’s been flashing in his head since the moment they got swept up into this whirlwind.  “So—will you, then?  Marry me?”</p><p> </p><p>The silence that follows is stifling, John’s confidence slowly beginning to crumble into the depths of Sherlock’s studious gaze.  He’s been listening intently, standing stock still, hands grasping John’s hips with an increasing intensity as the moment drags on for an impossibly long time, the two of them staring at each other unabashedly.  </p><p> </p><p>John clearly hasn’t thought this through to the end.  As much as he’s been imagining this moment, he hadn’t considered the possibility that he’d get no response whatsoever.  He’d expected an easy, if not especially enthusiastic, <em> yes. </em>  He knows that both of them are in this for keeps.  He certainly hadn’t expected the question to come as such a bloody surprise.</p><p> </p><p>“Sherlock,”  He tries gently, framing the man’s jaw with both hands.  “It’s all right—you don’t have to answer right now.  And whatever you decide, it’s—“</p><p> </p><p>“Fine?”  Sherlock cuts him off, his entire pompous being seeming to return to his body in a rush as he suddenly comes back online.  “You say that far too often, John.  It’s fine, it’s all fine.  I don’t want you to—<em> coddle </em> me.  If I turned down your <em> marriage proposal, </em> things would certainly not be <em> fine,” </em>  He snaps, catching John entirely off guard.  He lets his hands fall back down to his sides.  All right then.</p><p> </p><p>“Sherlock—“</p><p> </p><p>“How is it that I’m so <em> completely </em>blindsided by this?  Why is it that I am barely able to process the fact that the man I love more than anything is proposing I call him my husband?”  He steps back, spinning around once and throwing his arms up, immediately letting them drop.  “This is the logical next step for us, and yet I never once thought that it was an option.  I was absolutely certain that you would never even consider it, and hadn’t allowed myself to think beyond that.  Why is that?  What is wrong with me, John?”  </p><p> </p><p><em> Oh. </em>   John remains leaning against the worktop, allowing him his space.  All of his questions are perfectly valid, each of his concerns entirely relatable for John—their traumas falling under a similar umbrella of old, lingering pain and irrational negative thoughts.  Just two weeks ago John himself had assumed Sherlock was bloody <em> leaving </em> before he let himself believe that he wanted a future together.  He’d worked himself up into a state of despair—hadn’t even considered that Sherlock had bought this house for <em> him. </em>   For <em> them. </em></p><p> </p><p>“There’s nothing wrong with you,” This comes out rather more gently than he’d intended.  Cringing inwardly at the thought that Sherlock may think he’s coddling, John clears his throat and continues, his tone firm.  “We make assumptions about each other, Sherlock—always have, really.  It’s caused us a world of pain—<em> lasting </em> pain.  Neither of us do anything by halves and I’m afraid we’ve managed to traumatize one another rather thoroughly,”  He pauses, carefully considering his next words.  “But we’ve made it this far.  I’d never dared dream you’d let me in so completely.  You’ve allowed me to love you without reservation, and it still surprises me every day.  Maybe it always will.  After a decade of holding ourselves back, it’s going to continue to be an adjustment,”  Sherlock nods, stepping forward and running his fingers through John’s hair, not breaking their gaze for a second as John continues.  “I want to marry you.  I’d like to give this a name as well—to call you my husband.  But it really is fine if you don’t want that.  This is forever either way,”  He pecks Sherlock on the cheek, inhaling deeply, wanting to get this all out.  “I do understand that it never felt within the realm of possibility, before.  None of this did until recently, for either of us.  But it is.  I’ve been imagining it for awhile now, and it feels right.  It feels obvious, really,”  He cuts himself off a bit abruptly.  “I love you,” He concludes, lamely.</p><p> </p><p>“Dad,” Rosie chirps distractedly from where she still sits perched in Sherlock’s chair across the room, effectively slashing the bubble of intense intimacy they’d been existing within.  They both turn to look at her.  “Watch with me.  Daddy too,” Sherlock meets his eye once more with a small grin.  John only had to tell her once that she could call him Dad if she’d like to.  After a bit of awkwardness while she tried it out, she seemed to decide it rolled right off the tongue and embraced the term entirely.  Now they’re Dad and Daddy.  Ridiculous and incredibly endearing.  </p><p> </p><p>Sherlock reaches for his hand, dragging him to the sofa nearest Rosie and plopping down beside her.  He pulls John down next to him, using his shoulder as a pillow and settling in to pretend to tolerate the animated drivel that Rosie so enjoys.  </p><p> </p><p>The three of them sit in contented quiet, John letting his eyes drift shut and his mind wander.  He’s beyond grateful for this life that they’re building together—this domesticity that’s always come so easily, but now with all the rest of it properly acknowledged and potentially given a name.  He decides to draft a new blog post for the public.  Perhaps less of a love letter and more of a you-were-right-about-us-all-along.  It’ll be a relief to live openly.  A final nail in the coffin of unnecessary shame that has plagued him for most of his life.</p><p> </p><p>He slides an arm around Sherlock’s waist, pulling him closer and pressing his lips briefly to the crown of his head.  His thoughts drift to what he should make for dinner, to Harry’s upcoming birthday and what they should give her—the basic day-to-day necessities that these two humans rely on him to remember.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, by the way,”  Sherlock mutters quietly, turning to trail a series of feather-light kisses up John’s neck, stopping to rumble directly into his ear.  "Obviously, yes.”</p><p> </p><p>◒</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0027"><h2>27. Twenty Seven</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello! Oops, it's been like two months.</p><p>Writing is weird, creative energy is sparse, and despite spending no time recently reading or writing about these characters, I think about them constantly and they live on in my brain.  Typing it up is another matter entirely, but here are another 2650ish words for you.</p><p>There are some references to things mentioned briefly in past chapters that will make no sense if you've forgotten.  It's been awhile so here's a refresher if you want it:<br/>Rosie's bedroom walls are covered in murals, specifically birds in the main room and bees in the playroom.<br/>Sherlock is planning to turn 221 into a halfway house for substance abuse recovery.<br/>Mycroft sent them a lotus plant as a congratulations on their overdue romance.  The lotus symbolizes rebirth.  It's something beautiful that grows out of murky waters.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sherlock has been deeply quiet throughout the afternoon.  John learned long ago that these prolonged periods of silence mean he’s working through something massive in that brilliant brain of his.  And considering it’s been mere hours since John asked the man to be his spouse—no small request—he expects that this quiet will persist for some time.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Nevertheless, Sherlock has strolled for hours alongside John through London Zoo, watching Rosie soak up each of her favourite exhibits.  After sitting sprawled on the sofa for an hour watching cartoons, they’d decided to make the trek, not having been to Regent’s Park in over a month and needing to entertain their energetic offspring somehow.  For the last year or so, they’ve visited the zoo every few weeks—it had begun as an educational experience for Rosie at Sherlock’s insistence and quickly become an activity that all three of them would easily agree to.  Rosie is constantly captivated, no matter the animals presented to her.  Sherlock will never admit it, but he loves them too—occasionally forgetting himself and getting swept up in excitement over the eclectic array of species that can be found there.  John just loves to wander around, soaking up the giddy joy radiating off of the two of them.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Today, John stood in his own contented silence, watching Sherlock’s eyes track Rosie’s fascinated movements through Butterfly Paradise.  He bought them each an ice cream and smiled when Rosie dropped hers on the pavement and Sherlock handed her his own without missing a beat.  He then ate John’s, naturally, but it was still a nice moment.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sherlock resurfaced again for a bit when they reached the massive, towering geometric structure that forms the Snowdon Aviary, responding rather enthusiastically to Rosie’s demands to compare the birds there with those that vibrantly adorn her bedroom walls.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The three of them passed the time strolling through several more exhibits and eventually grabbing a half-arsed dinner of fish and chips at a food stand.  They saw the lemurs and the penguins.  They watched the gorillas for a bit before heading, rather exhaustedly, back to their car.  They did not visit the aquarium.  They never have.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Now they sit side by side in the Land Rover while Rosie babbles and sings in the back seat—John behind the wheel, Sherlock’s hand pressed warmly against the back of his neck as they pull out of their parking space.  This is normally John’s move—something he does to ground them both—and on the rare occasions he finds himself the recipient of what he considers a rather intimate gesture, he feels anchored, safe.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m here.  We’re here.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But at this moment, Sherlock wants to say something, John can feel it.  He’s hesitating, buzzing with nervous energy.  After a long bout of oddly tense silence, weaving their way through the parking lot as Sherlock’s fingers idly drift over his skin, he turns to face John at last.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Baker Street,”  He says, voice low.  John stares at him blankly.  “Only for a bit.  I want to show you the progress,”  He adds, a nervous smile on his lips.  They are nearby.  Very nearby.  Closer to 221 than John has been since they left two weeks ago.  “It’s not much, obviously.  Not yet.  I was hoping you’d want to be involved in the process,”  John feels a golden glow spread through his chest at these words.  He knows Sherlock has been back to the flats a few times in the last week before they got swept up for three days in that bloody useless case, arranging for repairs and replacements and whatever else one must do in order to open a halfway house.  But they haven’t really discussed it.  John hasn’t thought much about it, focused as he’s been on nesting in their cosy new home.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“All right, yeah”  He says, wondering what Sherlock is so worried about.  “Yeah, I want to be involved.  Of course I do,”  Long fingers lightly squeeze his nape.  When John glances over, Sherlock has already returned his gaze to the window, but he never takes his hand away.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>∙</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh for god’s sake,”  Sherlock blurts out the moment they walk through the familiar black door, his eyes scanning the hall, nose subtly sniffing the air.  “I should have expected,”  He adds, huffing out a dramatic sigh and bolting up the seventeen steps that lead to a space that still feels like home.  John isn’t feeling any of the melancholy he’d assumed he’d feel walking back through that door.  He’d thought it would be unsettling and strange to visit this place now that they’ve left it behind—now that it’s empty of all the life that once dwelled within its walls.  But it’s fine.  It feels—nice.  Comfortable.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Rosie immediately follows Sherlock up the stairs.  John watches her go, standing frozen in place for a moment, gaze shifting to the door to 221A.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>I miss you,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he thinks instantly, feeling a bit foolish but continuing his silent statements nevertheless.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>You’ve given us so much.  You’ve given us everything, really.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sighing, he drags himself up the steps to see what all the fuss is about.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“—could have simply texted.  You really should have spared us the extreme inconvenience of hearing whatever it is you have come here to—”  Ah.  Of course.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I was in the area,”  Mycroft drawls from where he sits primly on their still-present old sofa, holding an arm out imperiously to summon Rosie.  She giggles, crawling onto his lap and beaming at a now scowling Sherlock.  She’s always loved Mycroft, much to everyone’s constant bewilderment.  And from the start, he didn’t seem to mind her, either.  “I’d simply noticed that you’d taken a trip to the zoo and thought perhaps this would be your next destination.  Hardly a difficult deduction, considering,”  He glances around the very much under-construction sitting room—startlingly white walls, clutter lying everywhere, a large ornate picture frame leaned against the fireplace, and rather haphazardly placed furniture in the center of the room.  His piercing eyes eventually land on John.  “Allow me to congratulate you in person.  I am thrilled for the both of you, truly.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He looks like he means it, even, painful as it must have been for him to say aloud.  John can’t help but grin.  He’s grown rather fond of Sherlock’s bizarre, interfering bastard of a brother over the years.  It took awhile, but these things tend to happen when you begin to consider someone very much a part of your family.  John strides over and drops down on the other end of the couch, mirroring Rosie’s radiant smirk as Sherlock scowls down at all three of them.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Thanks for the flower.  Didn’t realize you were so bloody sentimental,”  He also can’t help but tease Mycroft a bit.  The man still carries himself as though he’s made of steel, despite the many times they’ve seen him show a softer(ish) side.  He cares, whether he likes it or not.  In response, he only glares.  “You’ll have to come up with something better for the wedding, though,”  John blurts before he can stop himself.  And really, why should he stop himself?  Sherlock is his.  He is Sherlock’s.  And he wants the world to bloody know it.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Mycroft stares—and stares.  Then turns to Sherlock and stares some more.  John watches their silent communication, tries to pick up on the almost imperceptible facial expressions and body language they use to convey words without actually speaking them.  John is lost, as ever, but thinks he sees something tender pass between them.  Sherlock’s expression softens slightly and he clears his throat, breaking their gaze to look briefly at John.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes, well,”  He rumbles, eyes flicking back to his brother.  “You can pay for the honeymoon.  Why are you here, anyway?”  And just like that, the moment is gone before it could fully form.  His grey eyes narrow to slits as he leans back against the mantle, arms crossed over his chest.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“A case, of course.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Could have texted—”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I have texted, Sherlock.  Twice per day for the last four days.  You’ve not responded once.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So you’ve gotten your answer then.  We’re busy.  Again I ask, why are you </span>
  <em>
    <span>here?”</span>
  </em>
  <span>  Another moment of tense quiet as they glare at one another.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I suppose I wanted to see for myself,”  He mutters, gesturing flippantly toward the room at large.  “You’re really doing this, then,”  It isn’t a question.  As John takes a moment to look around 221B he can clearly see that Sherlock is </span>
  <em>
    <span>doing this</span>
  </em>
  <span> indeed.  The old wallpaper has been stripped entirely from the walls, lying in curled up piles beneath the windows.  John’s heart gives a pang at the sight of it.  The walls have been spackled—every last crack, crevice and bored bullet hole have been visibly repaired, the grey patches standing out against the stark white.  They’d done something like this after Eurus’ attempt to detonate them into oblivion a few years back, patching the place up and making necessary repairs—but they’d certainly never gone this deep.  Cans of paint and primer sit stacked in the corner, and the sofa and coffee table are all that remain of their old furniture, pushed toward the center of the room away from the walls and looking wildly out of place.  There are various tools lying about, as well as cleaning supplies and filthy white rags.  At closer inspection, the place is positively sparkling clean.  Cleaner than it’s ever been, John is certain.  Curiosity piqued, he stands, wandering into the kitchen.  New appliances.  He runs a hand over the edge of the shiny stainless steel stove.  Opens the coordinating refrigerator and stares at its white, empty shelves.  Not a severed body part or spoiled box of takeaway to be found.  He opens a cupboard at random and finds it empty, noting that each shelf has been meticulously wiped clean.  He feels—odd.  Not bad—not sorrowful or regretful or any of the things he may have thought he’d feel when faced with this beloved space they’d walked away from only weeks ago.  Just—odd.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He turns to find Sherlock hovering in the entryway, watching him nervously.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What colour for the walls, then?”  John asks, half to relieve Sherlock of his worry and half because he really wants to know.  He watches the man sigh, muscles relaxing against the archway where he leans.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Several options.  Can’t decide.  Thought I’d give you the final say,”  He marches toward John and snatches something off the worktop behind him.  Paint samples.  Four of them.  He hands them over and John stares down at the little stack of perfectly square coloured cards.  A deep, dark blue-green—</span>
  <em>
    <span>Forest Biome.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  A sandy, medium grey—</span>
  <em>
    <span>Twill.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  A deep, spicy red-brown—</span>
  <em>
    <span>Burnt Henna.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  And—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Pink Lemonade?” </span>
  </em>
  <span> A sharp giggle bursts out of John’s mouth as he reads the words on the final card.  Bright, blinding pink.  “God,”  He breathes, grabbing for Sherlock’s hand and finding his forearm instead.  He squeezes lightly, reassuringly.  “I forget sometimes that you are utterly ridiculous,”  Sherlock tries to glare back at him, but he can’t keep the smirk from his lips or the sparks from his eyes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Thought you’d like that one,”  He rumbles, waiting patiently for John to shut up with the giggling.  “Reminded me of our first date,”  His grin widens and John bursts out laughing once more.  First date indeed.  A Study in Instant Infatuation.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s easy—now that they are what they are—to think of their entire acquaintance in terms of courtship.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They both look up as something in the sitting room clatters loudly to the floor, followed by a shrieking giggle from an apparently delighted Rosie.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ah,”  Sherlock says, evidently knowing precisely what’s caused this ruckus.  John looks at him, eyebrows raised, then heads back into the sitting room.  On the floor in front of the fireplace lies the massive, ornate picture frame John had noticed propped against the grate.  Its contents were hidden from view but are now quite visible, on full display against the hardwood floor.  Rosie stands beside it, looking slightly guilty for knocking it over, but points amusedly down at the image when John meets her eye.  In the frame is a preserved piece of the old wallpaper.  It happens to be the piece containing the hideous, idiotic smiley face that had adorned their wall—put there in horrendous yellow paint not once, but twice, by Sherlock himself.  John loves the bloody ridiculous thing.  He absolutely loves it.  “I thought we could take it home,”   Sherlock says, voice a bit defensive.  Always assuming his actions will inspire mockery, will be met with only disdain and ridicule.  They often have, John knows.  Sherlock was so sure on that first day—</span>
  <em>
    <span>their first date</span>
  </em>
  <span>, as he apparently thinks of it—and many times since, that John would reject him.  He’s had a lifetime of it, especially on those rare occasions when he’s opened his fragile heart.  Not anymore.  Never again, if John can help it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He steps to Sherlock’s side, winding an arm around his waist and pressing his lips to a bony shoulder, feeling the comforting warmth of his skin through the thin white shirt he wears.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I love it.  You knew I would,”  He leans up to plant another soft kiss on a slightly pink cheek.  “And it appears our daughter is rather fond of it as well.  Above the mantle, then?  It’ll be perfect there,”  The ceiling above the huge, sprawling brick fireplace at the cottage is so high they could hang a hundred frames above it.  Perhaps they will.  Perhaps they’ll fill it with years of photographs of their families and friends.  With Rosie’s artwork and Sherlock’s many scoffed at and discarded achievements and newspaper clippings of the two of them smiling stiffly for the cameras.  With pine boughs for the holidays and banners for the birthdays and maybe even a marriage certificate one day soon.  Perhaps they’ll do that.  This is a good start.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sherlock stares down at him for so long, John feels his eyes begin to burn and his heart begin to race.  He stares as though he can read John’s thoughts, can see the images of their future years together flitting through his head—the representation of a life well spent scattered colourfully over their mantle.  They watch each other until they forget entirely that there are others in the room, only breaking their shared gaze when Mycroft clears his throat and stands, buttoning his jacket and smoothing his hands down his front.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<span>“It’s very clear to me,”  He begins, pausing briefly to consider his words.  “That whatever it is the two of you have found in one another is not only agreeable, but beneficial,”  John feels Sherlock freeze against his side.  He must admit that he, too, is rather stunned by this statement from the elder Holmes. “I won’t pretend to understand it, but I am not blind.  And this,”  He gestures once again to the room they stand in, eyes now boring into Sherlock’s.  “I must say, I’d scoffed at the idea of it.  The junkie who opens a recovery home—</span>
  <em>
    <span>what sort of fairytale is he trying to create?</span>
  </em>
  <span>  I’d asked myself.  But I say again, I am not blind.  One need not be a deductive genius to see how far you’ve come,”  John knows what he means.  He knows that in the past fortnight Sherlock’s entire being has shifted—has </span>
  <em>
    <span>grown</span>
  </em>
  <span> into something stronger, more sure, despite his lingering doubts and insecurities.  He carries an air of purpose, of newfound inspiration.  Mycroft takes a step toward the door, then thinks better of it and turns back to Rosie, crouching down to her level.  She moves forward to throw her arms around his neck.  He pats her twice on the back, then stands, taking his leave at last.  “I’ll text the details of the case,”  Sherlock rolls his eyes, knowing refusal is futile.  “And as for the rest of it—whatever you need.  Do not hesitate,”  He says firmly, then strides purposefully out the door.</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you guys so much for reading/commenting/being so nice and lovely and wonderful all the time.  Here's a <a href="https://youtu.be/ftcYJ6OqI1cI">beautiful song</a> by one of my favorites that I've been listening to a lot lately in these weirdass times.  Click the link, I promise it'll make your heart soar.</p><p>Please consider reading the <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26057815">angsty fic</a> I started if you like my stuff.  I'm still working on that one, too, and would love to hear any and all thoughts.</p><p> </p><p>&lt;3  Hope you're all doing okay out there.  &lt;3</p><p> </p><p>Boring things:</p><p>The aquarium at the zoo is not the one where all the shit went down, but I'm assuming that all aquariums are going to be traumatic for them and avoided at all costs.  Also, the London Zoo aquarium closed in 2019 but I think within this timeline it should still have existed at this point (summer of 2018?  Maybe?  Not going to pretend I in any way understood the timeline of the show or care enough to research it and do the math.)</p><p>I begrudgingly mentioned Eurus and her stupid grenade only because they DID redo the flat once already and it felt necessary to acknowledge that.  But nothing about any of that ever made an ounce of sense to me, and I refuse to ever watch it again, so if it doesn't make sense just pretend it does and never tell me otherwise.  &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0028"><h2>28. Twenty Eight</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p>It’s been a long day.  A long, exhausting, life-altering day.  They’ve had quite a few of those lately.  Now four walls, a locked door and a blanket of sleep separate them from their (adorably) demanding daughter, leaving the two of them to lie face to face, duvet pulled up over their heads—quite alone for the first time all day.  </p><p> </p><p>John’s fingers brush lazily up and down Sherlock’s arm, eyes locked in their dark cocoon.  The air around them is still, a quiet buzz of potential beginning to make itself known, crackling and simmering along the path John traces over Sherlock’s skin.  It’s been a fair while since they’ve found themselves here—last night they were asleep the moment their heads hit the pillow, and the three days prior were spent running around London and pacing about the cottage, catching a wink on the sofa whenever they were forced to acknowledge it had become necessary.</p><p> </p><p>Now time is on their side at last.  No obligations for the moment—Mycroft’s case, as it turns out, won’t require their services until the day after tomorrow.  They’ll be spending some undetermined length of time in Cardiff, looking into one of his <em> colleagues </em> while the man is out of the country.  <em> Dull, </em> Sherlock had managed to say a record number of times while relaying his brother’s texts to John, but he’d agreed to take on the case nonetheless.</p><p> </p><p>Now John shifts closer, fingers drifting from Sherlock’s arm to stroke along his jawline, trailing upward to card gently through dark curls.  Everything they’ve shared in this bed so far has been so much slower, so much softer than John could have ever imagined them capable of.  The sense of urgency that he’s always known to accompany sex and desire and intimacy in general does not seem to exist between the two of them.  Instead there’s a deep-seated, overpowering <em> pull </em> that lingers—the same one that’s always been there—but they don’t fight it anymore, they're learning instead to savour it.</p><p> </p><p>Bringing his other hand up to Sherlock’s cheek, John holds his head between each palm and presses his reverence into familiar warm skin, inhaling the heady scent of the man in front of him.  His lips move languidly from brow, forehead, cheekbone, eyelid, to softly panting mouth, lingering in each spot, taking his time.  Whenever he does this—nearly every night that they’ve been together—Sherlock just stills and allows it to happen.  Closes his eyes, sighs and breathes as John kisses a path over his pliant face.  Perhaps he’s remembering that first time, in the garden—tearing down the last of their barriers with his lips, showing him exactly what he feels and what he knows they could be.  Should be.  Are.  </p><p> </p><p>Perhaps he’s just cataloguing each sensation, quietly accepting what John has to give.</p><p> </p><p>Eventually, he visibly surfaces, coming alive beneath John’s hands and meeting his lips—the full force of his desire evident in each eager kiss. With a contented groan, John falls back, allowing Sherlock to press him into the sheets, responding without much thought—revelling in the ease of this connection, the heat of him, the thin layer of slick sweat forming on their bare skin, the tendrils of warmth rapidly growing and blooming throughout John’s body.  Gradually, they sink into each other, lost to the world as heat grows, hips writhe, chests heave and fingers seek.</p><p> </p><p>Now John kneels, sheets tangled around his hips and two full fingers buried deep.  He hovers above the long, lean body arching beneath him, digits thrusting and twisting, tongue dancing lightly along Sherlock’s gracefully straining erection.  Sherlock gasps sharply, the unrelenting moan that escapes him doing something to John that he could not explain if he tried.  He can still hardly grasp that he’s allowed to see Sherlock like this—to be the cause of it—to watch him slowly unravel, give himself over to sensation.  He always seems to be seeking more—more of this closeness, more of John.  <em> He can have all of it, </em> John thinks.  All of him, if he wants it.</p><p> </p><p>Sherlock suddenly stills, scrambling to prop himself up on one elbow, tugging desperately at John’s hair, then his shoulder, pulling him up and away.  When John draws back his hand, Sherlock pushes him down quickly, immediately crawling on top of him, eyes fierce, dark and wild—determined and sure—bony knees firmly bracketing John's hips.  John watches wide-eyed as he leans to the side, returning with their bottle of lube and staring down at John with transparent purpose.  <em> Oh. </em> He’s—</p><p> </p><p>“Sherlock—”  John sounds wrecked.  They’ve not found their way here yet—talked about it, sure.  Vaguely.  Sherlock quickly made his interest in exploring the depths of his body known.  But this is—</p><p> </p><p>“Yes?”  Obviously yes.  As if John could deny him this or anything else, ever again.  He nods, running his palms up and down the backs of Sherlock’s thighs as he lifts himself up on his knees and begins a steady, slick pull along John’s shaft.  He wastes no time lining them up—they’re both too far gone for this to go on much longer—and as he inches his way down, slowly, <em> so bloody </em> slowly, John wills his entire body not to spontaneously combust.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh my god,” John breathes out, entirely spellbound, gaze fixed on the ethereal being hovering above him.  <em> Oh my god. </em>  He looks like a bloody heavenly creature—strong, delicate hands pressed warmly against John's chest, wild eyes now closed tight, long lashes stark against reddened cheeks.  Mussed hair frames his face in riotous tangles, his kiss-swollen lips parted slightly in concentration as he sinks down further, body gradually allowing John in.</p><p> </p><p>Once he’s seated flush against John’s pelvis, they both force themselves to be still, despite hammering hearts, heaving breaths, restlessly shifting hips.  Sherlock has yet to open his eyes, but after a moment he slides his hands to John’s shoulders, pulling him upright, closer, closer, wrapping one large hand around the back of his neck, the other snaking around to the small of his back until they’re chest to chest, Sherlock seated snugly in John’s lap.</p><p> </p><p>John fights his way out of what is doubtlessly the most intense fog of arousal he’s experienced in his life, wanting desperately to get this right and to remember every second of it.  In this moment he can’t be certain that the two of them aren’t one entity—he cannot be sure that they aren’t fused together inextricably on a molecular level, bound to each other in some way that John had not previously realized two human beings could be.  He can feel every part of Sherlock as though it were a part of himself—the savage beat of their synchronized hearts a constant thrumming presence in his ears, body, scattered mind.</p><p> </p><p>“John,” Sherlock whispers, letting his forehead fall forward to rest against John’s own.  And oh god, he’s said it all in that single syllable, hasn’t he.  He’s said it all.  And when he rolls his hips back experimentally, John tries not to fall.</p><p> </p><p>Movements a bit stilted, a bit unsure, John can’t help but push his hips upward to meet each of Sherlock’s tentative, exploratory rolls—and the moment he finds the angle he’s been looking for, John knows.  He watches as sharp, nearly black eyes fly open, meeting his own from just inches away and boring straight down to the heart of him.  Sherlock halts for a fleeting moment, leaning in to kiss the last coherent thoughts from John’s mind, then simply pants against his lips as he begins to move in earnest.</p><p> </p><p>Something inside him snaps, sparks—the embers he’d been suppressing suddenly caught in the wind and roaring back to life.  John wraps one arm firmly around Sherlock's back, feeling muscles flex beneath hot skin, feeling the strength of the man as he moves—the roll of his hips like a bloody tidal wave, crashing over John and drawing him in.  He leans forward, tongue gliding wetly over each peaked nipple, revelling in the sounds that escape from somewhere deep behind beating heart and breastbone, resonating through John, feeding the flame.  John wraps his fingers firmly around Sherlock’s shaft where it stands between them, already slick and straining.  He hears himself groan helplessly when Sherlock begins a sharp thrust up into the tight ring of his fingers, hips shifting back, only to snap upward again and again.  They move together, clinging and gasping but somehow sure, steady.  Their bodies are a force, a fine-tuned machine—surging and churning as though they were always meant to move like this—have always innately known how to unite in this way.</p><p> </p><p>“John,”  No one has ever said John’s name like Sherlock does—like it <em> means </em> something.  Like it contains substance, significance.  When he breathes it now against his dampened forehead, when he pours it like honey onto his overheated flesh—it does.  </p><p> </p><p>John tightens his grip, stroking downward with each of Sherlock's increasingly desperate thrusts, slides his other hand up to grip his shoulder, seeking whatever leverage he can manage.  He slams his hips upward, twisting his fingers and holding on, watching the unearthly moment that Sherlock comes entirely undone.  Throwing his head back and arching forward, long fingers gripping convulsively against John’s neck, Sherlock comes with a stunned, shuddering gasp.  John is dazed, breathless as the body around him tenses, all space left between them evaporating in an instant, contracting and pulling him quickly to his own euphoric end.  Burying his face against warm, salty skin, John muffles the startled shout that escapes him, feeling it turn immediately into a sob as he clutches and clings to the man still trembling in his arms.</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>∙</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>“John,”  Now they lie once more in the silent solitude that seems only to exist beneath the duvet—limbs tangled rather thoroughly, noses pressed together and lips occasionally meeting, but mostly not.  John inhales deeply at the sound of his name, shifting in response and settling somehow closer.  “I’d like to have a wedding.  A—proper wedding,”  Sherlock quietly rumbles.  John lets his eyes drift open and glances up.  Sherlock is watching him.  There’s no trace of doubt on his features or in his tone, and some part of John wonders if he’s heard him wrong.  <em> A proper wedding. </em>  He’d envisioned a small affair—quick, simple statements of devotion shared between them.  Papers signed.  Perhaps their immediate families present.  He’d envisioned it that way because he’d assumed that’s what Sherlock would want.  No fuss, no over-the-top nonsense—none of the sort of thing that Sherlock has always considered quite beneath him.  But apparently—</p><p> </p><p>“Define proper,”  John smiles, voice hushed, heart hopeful.  Sherlock rolls his eyes, then touches his lips softly to John’s cheekbone.</p><p> </p><p>“A ceremony.  Vows.  Coordinating suits of my choosing—obviously.  A reception.  All of it,”  He grins back, perhaps a bit shyly.</p><p> </p><p>“Thought you’d reject all that,”  John whispers, internally soaring at Sherlock’s words.  He wants that more than anything, if he’s being honest.  He wants everyone they’ve ever given a damn about to gather and celebrate all that they are.  All that they've found in one another.  He wants to dance and laugh and kiss Sherlock’s impossible lips in front of all of them—wants every last one of them to know that they’ve made it here at last.  More than that, though, he wants to <em> show </em> Sherlock the pride he feels when they’re together—wants to commit to paper the vows he’s been secretly penning in his head for nearly ten full years.  He wants to create that memory for them—something bright and undeniably tender and true to hold onto for the rest of their lives, to cling to when things aren’t so easy between them.  Sherlock tightens his long arms around John’s body, hiding his face in the dip of his shoulder.</p><p> </p><p>“I would have, before,”  <em> Before. </em>  Before this.  Before John.  Sherlock had only rejected such notions because he’d thought that he could never have them.  What other landmark moments has he convinced himself were not worthwhile before he’d given himself a chance to consider them?  “That was then,”  He mutters.  John smiles, kisses Sherlock’s temple—tugs gently on his curls until he leans back, meeting his lips in a slow caress.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> This is now. </em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0029"><h2>29. Twenty Nine</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p>“What have you done, you absolute maniacs?”  John stands stunned on the red brick pathway leading up to the cottage, staring in dumbstruck befuddlement at the two paint-covered idiots sitting cross-legged on the ground, giggling and admiring their work.  </p><p> </p><p>He’s just spent the last three hours in meetings with old colleagues, in an attempt at staffing Baker Street now that all three flats have been gutted, scrubbed, renovated and furnished to Sherlock’s (frankly ridiculous) standards.  Each space now has its own welcoming, cosy glow, but with rather a lot less dust and clutter, and frankly<em> much </em> less chaotic energy overall—221 has become a veritable oasis.  Inspections have been passed, permits have been obtained, and as of an hour ago, John has hired his old friend, boss and (briefly) lover Sarah Sawyer on as house manager and medical expert extraordinaire.  She’d been looking for a career change and he’d been looking for a competent human being to relieve him of the many duties he’d taken on in the last three months to pull the place together.  Frankly, he’s exhausted.  And now <em> this. </em></p><p> </p><p>“Ah, John,”  Sherlock positively beams up at him, leaning casually back against the stone wall and wrapping his arms loosely around bent knees, grin wicked as ever.  John narrows his eyes.  Rosie laughs and laughs.  “We never did find a use for the Pink Lemonade at Baker Street—thought it’d do rather nicely for the front door,”  Good <em> god. </em></p><p> </p><p>“Lovely,”  John says, a bit exasperated but fighting a smile.  It is quite...striking.  The vibrancy brings out the inlaid squares and floral carvings, standing out boldly against the dark stone wall.  No doubt Rosie loves it, and if he’s honest, it rather suits the three of them better than the sad, faded blue that lies underneath.  It’ll serve as a warning for anyone who pays them a visit:  <em> Look at the state of this door.  This is what you’re about to walk into.  </em> He feels himself give into the grin cracking across his face.  He’ll never be able to look at this absurd colour without jumping straight back to their first case together—their first <em> day </em> together—the way Sherlock made him feel from the moment he walked into his life.  <em> Pink. </em>  Sure, why not?  “Brilliant,”  He says very seriously, taking another step forward and squatting down to tickle Rosie to within an inch of her life.  “Fantastic,”  She giggles and shrieks, batting at his hands and trying to squirm away.  “Truly stunning,”  He lets her go, watching amusedly as she bolts around the corner, running to hide behind the willow tree on the side of the house, as he knew she would.</p><p> </p><p>He turns on the balls of his feet to face Sherlock, placing both hands on the man’s bony knees to steady himself.  Sherlock gives him a private smile, leaning in to place a swift kiss on John’s still-grinning lips.</p><p> </p><p>“You’ve hired Sarah,”  He says with a single nod.  John nods back, holding his breath.  “I don’t disapprove,”  Sherlock adds quickly, eyes darting over John’s face.  John knows that he approves of her—in theory.  They’ve talked about it extensively.  Decided that she was the perfect person for the job if only she could be convinced.  They’d laid out a generous salary, an equally expansive budget to work with, permission to hire her own staff as she sees fit, and a long list of reasons why she should leave her secure, reliable job at the clinic for this questionable, potentially disastrous one.  In a shocking turn of events, she was eager to accept and brimming with ideas for the place.  She’d spent her university years working in similar sober living homes, apparently loving the work she’d done there, and John is beyond relieved to put someone qualified in charge of the operation.  He and Sherlock have learned fairly quickly that they haven’t got a bloody clue what they’re doing.  Not that that’s ever stopped them before.</p><p> </p><p>“You’ll have to play nice,”  John shuffles over and drops down beside him, sitting close and wrapping Sherlock’s hand in his own, leaning heavily against his side.  Sherlock presses his lips to John’s temple, then rests his cheek against his crown.  John can feel him smile.</p><p> </p><p>“I never minded her, actually.  Competent.  Intelligent.  Braver than most.  She could’ve been a decent match for you, had you not mucked it up so thoroughly”  John huffs, elbowing him in the ribs.</p><p> </p><p><em> “You </em> bollixed it up for me, you mad prat.  She knew she could never compete with you.  Same with the rest of them, and they were quite right,”  He concludes.  Sherlock squeezes his hand.</p><p> </p><p>“Obviously.”</p><p> </p><p>“We still on for Angelo’s tonight, then?”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Obviously.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“I’d like to follow up with him about catering the wedding,”  He still gets a giddy thrill each time he says it—<em> the wedding </em> — <em> their </em> wedding.  They’ve set a date and everything—only three more months to go.  Sherlock was the one to suggest January 29th, and John had teased him relentlessly for weeks about how <em> terribly </em> sentimental he’s become.  But he’d easily agreed.  A winter wedding, on their sort-of-anniversary—yeah, why not?  John finds that to be his response to most everything Sherlock suggests these days.  He supposes that’s a side effect of happiness.  The whens and wheres and colours of doors and weather forecasts on their wedding day don’t much matter anymore. </p><p> </p><p>“Already done.  The menu has been selected and he’s been paid in advance, despite many tedious attempts at refusing payment,”  The eyeroll can be heard in his words.  “I was sure to include the lasagne,”  Sherlock adds.  John’s favourite.  He smiles to himself.  Sherlock has taken a rather active role in the process, which isn’t altogether surprising, considering the level of dedication with which he’d planned John’s last wedding.  John has been spending rather more time than he’d like lately dwelling on those days—he can’t help but picture Sherlock prancing around 221B, bending over backwards to accept John’s terrible decisions and to make the most of them for his sake.  The cold, sharp regret will always be there, he knows, but it’s begun to soften and evolve into something more like gratitude.  It has twisted and churned like a bloody great lava lamp in his gut, merging with the overwhelming joy that now resides there and forming something new.</p><p> </p><p>Now, when he looks back at that time, he mostly finds the feelings of relief and disbelief he’d been drowning in once Sherlock had returned.  John may have been making all the wrong decisions, but the mad bastard had stubbornly stayed a part of his life despite all that—had been there for him in whatever way he felt he could.  Now John is trying desperately to be that person for him—his support system, his partner, his bloody cheerleader if that’s what he needs.  He thinks he may even be succeeding.  They both are, against all odds.</p><p> </p><p>“Thank you,”  He says quietly.  “For the lasagne and for everything else,”  Sherlock will know what he means.  He knows where John’s thoughts tend to go when they speak of these things.  John turns his head to meet warm grey eyes, lingering for a moment before leaning in to kiss those lips with slow, gentle purpose.  “Come on,”  He whispers, then stands with a bit of effort, extending a hand to pull Sherlock up after him.  He raises an eyebrow at Rosie, who ambles around the corner just as they rise.  “You’re both in need of a bath.  You first, kid,”  She wrinkles her nose and begins to protest when John reaches out and lifts up a long blonde curl coated in dried pink paint.  The evidence is damning, and she concedes with a glare, shuffling through their flamboyant front door and heading for the stairs.</p><p><br/>
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</p><p>They sit close, knees brushing easily, at their usual table by the window (John had called ahead for it—he always does, these days) Sherlock lets out a contented sigh, long fingers fiddling idly with the small candle that sits between them.  They’ve completed the requisite pleasantries with Angelo—basked in his candid enthusiasm over their coming nuptials, and confirmed the plans for a menu of classic lasagne, gnocchi and chicken saltimbocca.  He promises to deliver one of each for them to try tonight—as if they haven’t been eating his cuisine several times a month since the day they’d met.  Now he’s taken his leave and left them with a bottle of far too expensive wine.</p><p> </p><p>“This is nice,” John says, still one to state the obvious, despite the years of snark he’s endured as a result of such statements.  Sherlock says nothing, but gives him an amused look over his glass, lowering it to reveal a small, fond smile.  John stares helplessly at his wine-stained lips, fighting the urge to taste them, to express his current contentment physically.  He’s always been better with actions than words.</p><p> </p><p>So’s Sherlock, now that he’s stopped holding himself back.  He’s constantly surprising John with a hidden demonstrative nature.  When they’re on a case he tends to be all business—at least in public—but at all other times, he has made it quite clear that he doesn’t mind one bit who sees them.  They made the papers only once, in the first month, walking hand in hand at a crowded market.  John had just posted a public blog announcement, which created rather a lot of chaos for them for about a week.  But the interest in their relationship had quickly died out, for the most part, much to their relief.  The attention span of the average British citizen is blessedly short.  Sherlock had stabbed the newspaper clipping into the wall above the mantle, where it remains—a precious relic.</p><p> </p><p>John feels his mobile vibrate in his pocket and tears his gaze from Sherlock’s lips to glance at the screen.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Venue secured.  MH </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“What are you smirking at?”  Sherlock asks pointedly, voice thick with suspicion.  When John looks up, his eyes are narrowed to slits, leaning in further than is strictly proper in a not-at-all-subtle attempt at getting a look at the screen.  John bursts into giggles, pocketing the phone and taking advantage of their proximity to peck Sherlock on his unjustly lush mouth.</p><p> </p><p>“I’ve found us a venue,”  They’ve been looking, sort of, but as it’s standard to book at least a year in advance and they’re unwilling to wait that long, they’ve had no luck whatsoever.  And apparently no one with a full-service wedding venue owes Sherlock a favour.  So naturally, John turned to Mycroft, and what Sherlock doesn’t know won’t hurt him.  “A conservatory.  It’s beautiful,”  He glances over, waiting for a reaction.  He gets nothing but a stunned scowl, so he pulls the mobile back out and opens the browser to the venue’s website, which John has been obsessively scrolling through in every free moment for the last few days.  He shows Sherlock the gallery—swipes through the images of the floor to ceiling windows, the towering glass roof, the sprawling tropical flora.  The place is perfect—half industrial, half natural—minimal, clean design but with an abundance of warmth.  Just like Sherlock.  It’s perhaps an odd choice for them, but that’s the point, John thinks.  They’ve each had a lifetime of odd choices that have led them to where they are now—why not celebrate that fact in a strange, beautiful space?  </p><p> </p><p>Sherlock hijacks his phone, staring intently at the screen, scrolling up and down through the photo gallery repeatedly, reading through the <em> About </em> page and scouring the whole of the website before setting it down on the table between them.  One long arm snakes around John’s waist, lean body shifting the last few inches along the booth to bring them hip to hip.  He takes John’s hand, places it palm up on his thigh, traces the lines on his palm with graceful fingertips until it rather tickles.  John is used to this.  Sherlock is thinking.  He waits.</p><p> </p><p>“It isn’t at all what I was expecting,”  He says finally, glancing at John, then dropping his gaze back to the hand on his thigh, fingers still gently drifting over skin.  “I’d thought—I’d <em> assumed </em> you’d prefer something more traditional,”  It’s true that the places they’d inquired about were much more traditional, but they really hadn’t spent much time discussing it, consumed as they’ve been with Baker Street and the occasional case.  John hadn’t thought much of it until he’d seen this space.  He could picture it—them— <em> Sherlock, </em> there, and he’d called Mycroft immediately to see what he could do.  That was three days ago.  He isn’t at all surprised, though, that Sherlock had made an assumption about his tastes.  They’ve learned to take their incorrect assumptions about each other in stride—they’ve had to.  “I love it,”  Sherlock says, finally, <em> genuinely, </em> bringing John’s hand up to his lips briefly before letting go.</p><p> </p><p>“Thought you might,”  <em> Knew you would, </em> is what he means.  John loves the place, too, but he’s chosen it for Sherlock.  He wants to stand in the middle of a tropical oasis in the centre of London in the dead of winter and exchange their vows.  He wanted a place as extraordinary and memorable as his chosen spouse, and he’s found it.  </p><p> </p><p>They stare at each other, only breaking their shared gaze when Angelo swoops in with three plates—John’s favourite, Sherlock’s and Rosie’s—and the two of them devour the whole of it, followed by indecently delicious panna cotta which John demands to be added to the menu in addition to the cake that they’ll still need to figure out.</p><p><br/>
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</p><p>They’d taken a cab to the restaurant—knowing full well that they would polish off a bottle and then some—and on the ride home they giggle breathlessly at nothing in particular, leaning on each other and playing with one another’s fingers.</p><p> </p><p>“God,”  John breathes, looking a bit reverently up at Sherlock.  “I’m not sure I ever fully imagined what my life would be like at this age, but I certainly never thought I’d be having so much bloody fun,”  Sherlock grins back.</p><p> </p><p>“I thought I’d be dead a decade ago,”  John’s face falls at that.  “Don’t, John—I only mean to say—”  He pauses abruptly to kiss John soundly, clearly meaning for the action to amplify his next words.  John kisses him back with all he’s got, pours himself into it.  Then waits.  Listens.  “I had nothing.  You gave me everything.  I think sometimes you think it’s the other way ‘round,”  He’s a bit drunk—they both are—cheeks flushed pink and words a bit rambling.  He’s captivatingly earnest like this.  Precious, truly.  John feels warm all over.  “You gave me everything,”  He repeats.</p><p><br/>
John watches him for a moment, then unlinks their hands and pulls one long arm around his shoulders, burrowing into his side.  Sherlock pulls him impossibly closer, arm slipping downward, a comforting weight against John’s back.  They spend the rest of the ride home in silence; John’s dazed, clouded mind marvels at this, as it so often does—at all that he has and what the two of them have become.  Wrapping his arms around the man beside him, he holds onto him in a way that says <em> I won’t ever let go. </em> He tucks his face against his neck and breathes.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
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<a name="section0030"><h2>30. Thirty</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p>“Come on, John, come on, come on, come on, come on.”</p><p> </p><p>“If you don’t shut up I’m going back to our lovely, <em> heated </em> home and leaving you here while I put up a plastic bloody tree,”  John warns, shivering in the frigid December morning as Sherlock stops abruptly and turns to stare back at him.  </p><p> </p><p>“You wouldn’t,”  The look of scorn on his face at the mention of a plastic tree dissolves the annoyance of a moment ago.  John smiles.  Just a small one.  Sherlock has been behaving like an overgrown child since the second they stepped out of the Land Rover and wandered into this lot of chopped down, tied up fir trees.  His enthusiasm is contagious and John finds it absurdly charming—mostly.  It’s a bit bloody much, but he loves him for it.  Loves him for the rather overwhelming excitement he’s shown in the last few days about the fast-approaching holidays.</p><p> </p><p>“I wouldn’t, no,”  John agrees, bumping his shoulder against Sherlock’s as they carry on walking, this time side by side.  “I’ve never known you to give a single shit about Christmas,”  He adds with a grin.  Sherlock scoffs.</p><p> </p><p>“Rosie loves Christmas, John.”</p><p> </p><p>“Ah, so all this is solely for her benefit, then?”</p><p> </p><p>“Obviously.”</p><p> </p><p>“Mm,”  John says, watching with no small amount of amusement as Sherlock darts toward a particularly tall, narrow tree sticking out of a massive pile of similarly tall, narrow trees.</p><p> </p><p>“This one,”  He declares, tugging at its twine until it emerges from the cluster of aromatic green.  He drags it free, standing over it proudly, hands on hips.  When he glances up, their eyes lock—Sherlock is dazzling and brilliant in the winter sun—and John’s a goner.  He knows full well he won’t be winning any battles today.</p><p> </p><p>“Bit tall,”  He manages, because he can’t resist trying.  He clears his throat and takes the few steps between them to stand by Sherlock’s side.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, well.  We’ve got the ceiling for it,”  That <em> is </em> true.  They’ve certainly got the space, even if it is a bit ridiculous to drag this enormous dead tree into it.  John has never felt particularly strongly about such traditions.  Growing up, it was a tiny artificial tree and maybe a string of lights on the window if his father could remain upright long enough to hang them.  Sherlock runs a palm down the back of John’s head, coming to rest at his nape.  “Rosie will, theoretically, remember this Christmas for years to come,”  He says quietly, standing close, forming a comforting line of heat all down John’s side.  “She’s old enough now to form lasting memories.  It’s our first Christmas as a family, John,”  John feels a startling pressure behind his eyes at those words.  He hadn’t really thought of it like that.  He’s considered them a family for years.  For ages, it feels like.  But Sherlock isn’t wrong—and it is certainly their first Christmas in the cottage.  He wraps an arm around the narrow waist beside him, hand brushing over the familiar wool of Sherlock’s coat.</p><p> </p><p>“Whatever you want,”  He says, turning to press his lips to Sherlock’s shoulder.  “I’m all in.  We’ll make it one to remember.”</p><p>
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</p><p>“No gifts,”  John says, leaning heavily on their overflowing shopping trolley as he watches Sherlock pause in front of a display of cashmere jumpers.  Sherlock glances back at him, a confused scowl between his storm-grey eyes.  “No gifts for me, I mean,”  John is counting on this Christmas for the opportunity to show Sherlock how highly he thinks of him in an actual, tangible way.  It’s his turn to do the bloody giving.  And for once, he has a plan in place—something Sherlock would never think to get for himself.  Two somethings, in fact.  “And I do mean it, Sherlock, you’ve already bought me a bloody house and a bloody car and a bloody honeymoon—”</p><p> </p><p>“Mycroft is paying—”</p><p> </p><p>“You know what I mean,”  He snaps, glaring in a way that he hopes is threatening.  Sherlock takes one look at him and snorts.  Picks up a midnight blue jumper and tosses it into the cart.  Bastard.  John opens his mouth to argue, but is cut off immediately.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s for Gavin,”  Sherlock lies.</p><p> </p><p>“Greg,”  John laughs.  He scoops the soft bit of fabric up to look at the tag.  “You’re a terrible liar.  And you’ve picked one in my size,”  He adds, folding it neatly and setting it back on the shelf.  “You’re only buying this to be contrary,”  Sherlock ignores this.</p><p> </p><p>“I assure you, John, that the purchases you’ve mentioned were all entirely selfish endeavors.  After all, I, too, reside in the aforementioned house.  Anyway, look what it’s gotten me.  Now I have you,”  He swoops down to kiss John swiftly, immediately pulling back and snatching up the discarded jumper.  He holds it up to John’s chest, nods to himself, and tosses it back into the trolley.</p><p> </p><p>“For the record,”  John begins, pointedly ignoring the jumper that now lies in a heap on top of their cart full of fairy lights and baubles and books and Christmas crackers and toys and two tiny festive dresses.  “You had me before all that,”  He slides his palm down Sherlock’s forearm, grasping his hand tightly.</p><p> </p><p>“I know,”  Sherlock smiles his secret smile, weaving their fingers together and nudging the trolley forward.  “Let’s get home.  We’ve got three hours to hide all this and get the tree up.”</p><p>
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</p><p>It takes them two.  After much cursing and grunting and a bit of exasperated shouting—not to mention a close call with a windowpane—they’ve managed to get the tree through the back door and into its stand.  Once the twine was cut away and the branches freed, it was revealed to be a rather gorgeous specimen.  Full and lush and lovely, its scent filling their large sitting room and making it feel unbearably cosy.  John drug a ladder in from the garage and watched bemusedly as Sherlock wrapped string after string of sparkling white fairy lights around the towering tree, eventually stepping back to admire his work.</p><p> </p><p>“Perfect,”  He rumbles.  Then his eyes widen mischievously in a way that says he’s thought of something that will amuse John quite thoroughly.  He snatches the skull from the mantle and climbs back up the ladder to shove it unceremoniously on top of the tree.  John lets out a shocked huff of laughter, absolutely bloody delighted by this sudden macabre display.  Sherlock really never ceases to surprise him with his boyish outbursts, even now.  He sits back on the sofa staring up at the man where he grins smugly from the top of the ladder.</p><p> </p><p>“God, you’re an idiot.  Get down here, please,”  Sherlock clambers back down, dropping dramatically to sit beside John on the chesterfield.  John tugs him sideways into his lap, carding a hand through his curls and massaging his scalp with gentle fingertips.  Sherlock closes his eyes, hums contentedly.  “She’ll love it,”  John says quietly.  He brushes a loose curl from Sherlock’s forehead as he wriggles into a comfortable position, head pillowed on John’s thigh.  John sighs, trying futilely to contain the familiar surge of unfettered affection swelling inside him.  “All of it.  We’ve never done anything like this.  It never seemed—” <em> worth it? </em>  Well.  It hadn't really, had it?  Even the last few Christmases back at Baker Street have been entirely understated.  They’ve never exchanged gifts, the two of them.  Never set up a tree.  They’d essentially ignored the looming holiday entirely until Christmas morning arrived, watching Rosie unwrap a few presents and doing little else to mark the occasion.  And the years before that—well.  Christmas has never been a particularly happy occasion for them at all.  “I’ve never been much for holiday traditions, but I’m, ah, beginning to see the appeal,”  John mutters.  Sherlock smiles, eyes still closed.</p><p> </p><p>“Knew you’d come around,” He rolls to bury his face in John’s jumper.  John automatically moves to wrap his arms around Sherlock’s pliant, trusting body.  When had this become so easy?  Sherlock sighs, his breath hot against John’s belly.  “How long have we got?”</p><p> </p><p>“Molly will be here in an hour.”</p><p> </p><p>“Mm,”  Sherlock mumbles, already half asleep.</p><p>
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</p><p>Rosie lets out a screeching, hysterical giggle when she walks in the front door and sees the tree.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, wow,”  Molly breathes.  Then:  “Oh—wow,” When she sees the two of them cuddled up on the sofa, blinking themselves awake.  Her smile is rather unsettling.  She’s got her mobile out and several photos snapped before either of them even realize what’s happening.  Sherlock lifts his head to glare.</p><p> </p><p>“Ah—hi,”  John says with an apologetic grin.  “Guess we drifted off.  Hey, kid—oof,”  He lets out a breathy laugh as Rosie jumps up onto his lap beside Sherlock’s mop of hair.  Sherlock grumbles, sitting up reluctantly and slouching back against the cushions.</p><p> </p><p>“Have a nice morning, then?”  He mutters, voice rough from his abruptly interrupted kip.</p><p> </p><p>“Mm, yes, I’d say so,”  Molly hasn’t stopped smirking.  She plops down on the adjacent sofa and watches them for a moment.  She lifts her mobile again.  Sherlock winces.  “Oh just—come on, won’t you—”  She pleads.  John elbows him, shifts Rosie until she’s sitting between them.</p><p> </p><p>“Go on, then,”  John says.  He doesn’t really have any photos of the three of them, come to think of it.  Perhaps a few spontaneous selfies from their trips to the zoo, but nothing quite like this.  He glances at Sherlock.  “Smile, you git,”  Sherlock exhales loudly, but slides an arm around John’s shoulders, scooting in close and tickling Rosie until she squeals with glee.  Molly laughs, takes a few shots, then tosses her phone on the cushion beside her.  “Send them to me, won’t you?”  John wants those photos.  He wants to look at them and look at them and look at them.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh yes,”  Molly agrees, sounding a bit conspiratorial.  She waves a hand toward the tree.  “So are we going to decorate this thing, or what?”</p><p>
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</p><p>The week seems to roll by on a wave of tinsel and laughter and holiday movies on the telly and late-night gift wrapping and homemade sweets.  Not to mention a rather memorable case involving a spouse-killer they’d tracked down, only to find him dead of exposure in his own back garden.  John had chosen to title it <em> ‘Love at Frost Bite’ </em> on the blog.  This had sparked a flood of very rude commentary from Sherlock that had led to him pinned down on the bed with John’s full weight on top of him, silenced with a rather vigorous kiss.  He hadn’t had much to say about mediocre writing abilities and positively hateful puns after that.</p><p> </p><p>By the time Christmas Eve is upon them, John is nearly giddy with eagerness at finally being allowed to give Sherlock the gift he’s been plotting, in secret, for bloody <em> ages. </em>   <em> Just one more day, </em> he keeps telling himself.  <em> Keep your bloody mouth shut until tomorrow. </em>  It’s been nearly a year in the making, with much assistance from Mycroft that he was thrilled (for once) to accept.  Sherlock hadn’t noticed their correspondence.  Sherlock had been grieving—he’d been adrift for months after Mrs. Hudson’s death.</p><p> </p><p>John had set the process in motion before everything between them had begun—before the move, before they’d become <em> them. </em>   But it was only after Sherlock had announced his plans for Baker Street over the summer that it all fell into place.  And as of just a few days ago, the <em> i’s </em> are dotted, the <em> t’s </em> are crossed, and it’s all been made official at last.  <em> One more day. </em></p><p> </p><p>A knock at the door.</p><p> </p><p>“Here we go,”  John says, shooting Sherlock a look that’s half grin, half cringe.  He flings the front door open to reveal Harry, sporting her own bright, beaming grin on her face and the most horrendous Christmas jumper he’s ever seen.  Her (still mostly blonde) hair falls just past her ears, a bit shorter than the last time he’d seen her.  She’s wearing her usual black skinny jeans and combat boots, but she looks—well, good.  Healthy, even.  “Harry,”  He says, a bit belatedly.  “Happy Christmas.”</p><p> </p><p>“Hey, family.  Happy bloody Christmas,”  She shuffles inside, throwing her arms around John’s neck and glancing around the room behind him.  “Well,”  She hasn’t stopped beaming.  “Here we go.”</p><p> </p><p>“Harry,”  Sherlock nods, stepping out of the kitchen where he’s just pulled a tray of mince pies from the oven, dropping it onto the giant butcher block island without much thought.  He strides toward them, kisses her on the cheek before pulling her into a genuine embrace.  They’d got on swimmingly from the start.  They hadn’t really had occasion to meet in years prior, but the two of them had taken to each other instantly when she began coming around over the summer.  They bonded, it seemed, over a shared love of relentlessly teasing John.  “Rosie, say hello.”</p><p> </p><p>“Hello,”  Rosie says a bit shyly, dragging her gaze away from the telly where she’s been watching some claymation holiday programme from the seventies.  She lights up when she sees the frankly massive bag of gifts that Harry has in tow.  “Are they for me?”  John rolls his eyes.  It had taken a few visits for Rosie to warm up to Harry.  They hadn’t spent much time together until this year.  But things are better now.  For Harry and for the rest of them.  And Harry had learned early on that if she brought presents, she could simply bribe her way into Rosie’s heart.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes they’re for you.  For <em> tomorrow. </em>  Come here, you rascal,”  Rosie grins, slides off the sofa and makes her way into Harry’s waiting arms.  She lifts her up, groaning as she stands.  “Christ, you’ve grown, haven’t you?  What’s it been, a month?  Missed you, kid,”  She pecks one chubby cheek, then sets her carefully back down, keeping her stubby fingers wrapped warmly in one hand.  “Are we decorating biscuits, then?  I brought supplies.”</p><p>
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</p><p>Once Rosie has exhausted herself painting tiny masterpieces on sugar biscuits with frosting-dipped fingers, Sherlock takes her upstairs to read her to sleep.  John watches them spiral slowly up the staircase, wondering when the last time he’d had a moment alone with Harry had been.  He cannot remember a time where they’d spoken without the buffer of another person.  She wastes no time at all.</p><p> </p><p>“John,” She says, voice soft, serious.  “I’ve wanted to ask—“ She pauses for a moment, probably to see if he intends to interrupt.  When he says nothing, she continues.  “Are things—is it all right?  Everything between you two, now that you’re—together.  Now that you’ve—“  She huffs, annoyed with herself.  John watches patiently as she rocks back on her stool where they sit at the butcher block surrounded by a rainbow of baked goods, then sighs, drops forward, runs a hand through her hair.  “I’m rubbish at this.  Just—it’s been awhile, now.  You’ve had time for the shine to wear off, to get comfortable.  Or—not.  Sometimes it’s—well you know.  Clara and I married before we really knew each other and you saw how that worked out.  And with—Mary, you never seemed—“ She sighs, glancing up at him.  “I’m not saying that it—it’s different, of course.  You and him.  You’ve got history.  And you both seem—good,”  She lets out a nervous giggle when John just raises his brows in response.  “Very good, actually.  But.  You know.”</p><p> </p><p>“We’re good,”  John can only smile at her clumsy attempts at sisterly concern.  “We’re—impossibly—good,”  She smirks, turning on her seat to face him.</p><p> </p><p>“How’d you manage that, then?”</p><p> </p><p>“No bloody idea.  Just—lucky.  So bloody lucky, Harry.  He’s—“  John swallows hard, realizes he’s getting a bit choked up, thinking of Sherlock and all that he is.  Saying it aloud to his sister, of all people.  God, this Christmas is getting to him.  It really is. “He’s incredible.  You know him.  He’s brilliant.  Thoughtful.  Loyal.  The way he is with Rosie is just—and with me, now that we’ve—I am constantly surprised by him.  By his willingness to—“ John sniffs, stares up at the ceiling.  Christ.  <em> His willingness to let me see exactly how much he loves me. </em>   “We’ve been a proper couple for nearly half a year now—getting <em> married </em> in a month—and I still can’t believe I've managed to keep him.  You know what we’ve gone through together.  There was—a lot to work through.  It wasn’t always good.  But now that we’re—yeah,”  He clears his throat, swipes at his eyes.  “Shit.  Yeah, I’m—a bloody lucky man.  And grateful.  You’ve no idea,”  She stares at him for an uncomfortably long moment.</p><p> </p><p>“Wow, Johnny, I—I think I have some idea, actually.  Yeah.  This is—I’ve never seen you like this at all.”</p><p> </p><p>“No,” John lets out a watery laugh, wiping at his eyes once more.  “No, definitely not.  Maybe I’m just getting old.”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t think that’s it, though.  Do you?”</p><p> </p><p>“No,”  He shakes his head, laughs again.  “I don’t deserve this, you know?”  Harry scowls, opens her mouth to disagree but John keeps on.  “I’m not—looking for sympathy or—I’m just—I don’t deserve him.  It’s—I’ve accepted it, now.  I just—recognize how lucky I am.  That he’s chosen me for reasons I will never understand.  It works, somehow, despite everything,”  He looks up, meets her eye, shrugs.  “I never dreamt that I could have this, yeah?  I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to show him how loved he is.”</p><p>
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</p><p>When they crawl into bed later—after several rounds of cards with Harry, after hearing about her recent struggles with sobriety, her new sponsor, her new love interest and the slightly nicer flat she’s hoping to move into next week—John is grateful to be alone.  </p><p> </p><p>Alone, together.</p><p> </p><p>He pulls the duvet over their heads and presses his lips to Sherlock’s brow, to each closed eyelid, sharp cheekbones, a strong, beloved jawline.  He makes it a point, still, to do this often.  It reassures them both, this small intimacy.  He can feel it.  </p><p> </p><p>He places a lingering kiss on the corner of Sherlock’s mouth, then pulls his soft upper lip gently between his own.  John’s tongue drifts along the inner edge, dips in slightly and pauses to listen to the quickening breath, the thrumming heart of the man beneath him.  He falls back until they’re side by side, face to face, holds Sherlock’s head in his hands and deepens the kiss.  He feels suddenly desperate, every last word of gratitude, of love and profound appreciation that he’d spoken aloud earlier rising rapidly to the surface.  He’s painfully aware that he could never fully convey everything he needs this impossible, beautiful man to know—all that John wants him to understand, to feel.</p><p> </p><p>“John,” Sherlock gasps, pulling back to look at him.  His eyes are stunningly dark, a bit wild, swimming with emotion and a hint of concern.  “What—“ John shakes his head, closes his eyes tightly.  Feels hot tears spill over and run sideways down his cheek.  Sherlock brushes them away.  Seems to freeze for a moment, but then he’s kissing John again.  Slowly, carefully.</p><p> </p><p>John sighs into the kiss, reaches down to palm Sherlock firmly through his pants.  He moans breathily into the space between John’s lips and doesn’t protest when he breaks free to slide further down that long, lean body.  </p><p> </p><p>John has gotten good at this, with time.  He’s found that he loves it.  Loves this intimacy, this connection, the feel of Sherlock thickening against his tongue, the taste of him, all of it.  This is an act of devotion, for him.  He worships with wandering fingers and the slow, steady drag of his lips.  He writes scriptures with his tongue and swallows Sherlock’s sins.</p><p> </p><p>John takes himself in hand.  The small, contented sounds Sherlock makes and the sight of him like this—soft and pliant and utterly wrecked—has John gasping against his wiry thigh, lips dragging over a bony knee as he breathes through the heady rush of oxytocin coursing through him.  </p><p> </p><p>He gives himself a moment, then pulls his t-shirt over his head, wipes his hand with it, tosses it to the floor.  Stares down at Sherlock, whose eyes are closed, hair a tangled mess, clearly well on his way to sleep.</p><p> </p><p>He is everything John could ever hope to find in another person.</p><p> </p><p>“Come here,” A low rumble.  Sherlock is looking back at him with dark, hazy eyes.  Pleading eyes.  John goes.  Soon long fingers are combing through his hair, cupping his jaw, tracing a warm path down his side to remain on the curve of his waist.  “What is it, John?”  John swallows, shuts his eyes.  Shakes his head.</p><p> </p><p>“I love you.”</p><p> </p><p>“I do know that,” There’s no humour in Sherlock’s tone.  He means only to reassure, to comfort.  John opens his eyes.</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t think you’ll ever understand how much,” He breathes, feeling a bit foolish.  A bit pathetic.  They’ve been over all this before.  But this confirmation feels important, somehow.  Today he needs to hear it, needs to know that all he feels is being felt in return.  Sherlock stares at him for a full minute before he finally speaks.</p><p> </p><p>“When you—touch me.  When you look at me, John, I—don’t have to question it,”  He slides his hand up to rest over the thud of John’s heart.  “You never hesitate to give me every part of you.  It’s—“ He swallows, looking overwhelmed.  John reaches up instinctively to place a palm against his cheek, fingers brushing along his temple.  Sherlock turns, slightly, leaning into his heat.  “It’s something I couldn’t have guessed was possible.  As I’ve told you before, you gave me something to live for the moment we met.  And now—I feel it.  I can always feel it,”  John nods, slides closer and wraps himself around Sherlock’s chest.  He tucks his head beneath his chin, presses his lips to the skin of a sweat-slick throat.  </p><p> </p><p>This, apparently, was what he’d needed to hear.  This, he can understand.  Because no one has ever made him feel this way, either.  No one has made him feel like Sherlock does.  No one has ever loved him so deeply and so completely, not even close. </p><p> </p><p>Sherlock tangles their legs together, presses close, twists his long arms around John until there’s no space left between them.</p><p>
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</p><p>“Coffee,”  John says, nudging Sherlock gently where he stands leaning against the worktop, still quiet and bleary-eyed.  The sun is only just beginning to rise, sending scattered squares of colour over the hardwood floors through the stained-glass windows.  Sherlock accepts the mug with a quirk of his lips, sips it gratefully.</p><p> </p><p>They’d decided ages ago not to feed Rosie the lie of Father Christmas, but the element of surprise is still something worth holding onto.  They’ve tucked away all her gifts in Sherlock’s laboratory, and have risen early to leave a few on the foot of her tiny little bed and the rest beneath the tree.  Now they stand, side by side, waiting.</p><p> </p><p>Harry is the first to emerge, stumbling out of the guest room and happily allowing herself to flop down the slide.</p><p> </p><p>“Handy, that,”  She says, nodding behind her as she stands.  “Happy Christmas.  I’d kill for some coffee.”</p><p>
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</p><p>Rosie makes herself known about a half hour later with a shrill squeal and a screeched “Dad!  Daddy!”  The three adults in the house have settled on the sofas in front of the softly crackling fireplace, and the sound of ripping paper can be heard over the second floor banister.  A moment later a series of freshly unwrapped plush toys make their way down the slide, followed by a mop of blonde curls.  When Rosie sees the mountain of gifts waiting beneath the tree, she turns to them, wide eyed.</p><p> </p><p>“Go on, then,”  Sherlock encourages, his smile infectious, grey eyes alight with the glow of the fire.  John leans against his side, pillows his head on his shoulder as Sherlock's arm slides around his back.  They silently watch their daughter experience this—her unbridled excitement and recurrent surprise.  He remembers, vaguely, what Christmas morning felt like as a child.  The thrill of it.  But he and Harry had never had anything quite like this.  Sherlock is the one who has given her this.</p><p>
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</p><p>Mr. and Mrs. Holmes arrive just after lunch.  Rosie is elated to see them, and even more so when they shower her with another flood of presents.</p><p> </p><p>They spend the day sipping mulled cider and chatting—discussing the wedding, recent cases, the blog.  Mrs. Holmes doesn’t hesitate to bombard Harry with questions about John’s youth and what he got up to.  Harry doesn’t hesitate to respond in kind, much to the delight of Sherlock.</p><p> </p><p>They watch Rosie destroy the sitting room, one new toy at a time.  At some point, John convinces her to swap her pyjamas for an emerald green tulle dress.</p><p> </p><p>Molly and Greg smile their way through the door around six, followed shortly thereafter by a much less enthusiastic Mycroft.  Molly makes herself at home, easily introducing herself and Greg to Harry and the Holmses, drifting around the room spreading her undeniable joy.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m pregnant,”  She tells John and Sherlock in a hushed tone as they refill everyone’s glasses in the kitchen.  There’s a brief moment of stunned silence, and then they somehow both have her in their arms at once, her wet giggles muffled by the fabric of Sherlock’s shirt.  “Three months along.  I’ve wanted to tell you both, but it didn’t seem quite real yet,”  She pulls a folded piece of paper from the pocket of her dress.  “Here—”  An ultrasound photo.  Real, indeed.  God, she’s beaming.  They know of Molly’s love of children.  They see it all the time with their own daughter.</p><p> </p><p>“Molly—”  John hugs her again, kisses her cheek.  “I’m—”</p><p> </p><p>“Thank you,”  She says, not needing to hear whatever fumbled words John was about to say.  Sherlock embraces her again, too.  Nodding and looking surprisingly choked up.  John takes his hand and smiles when Sherlock squeezes back to the point of pain.</p><p> </p><p>Mycroft spends a solid hour hunched in John’s chair in the corner, looking like a proper grinch, until Harry accosts him with conspiratorial chat about the wedding.  John spends a few minutes trying to listen in, but gives up on trying to find out what siblings of the grooms have to chat about.</p><p> </p><p>No one mentions the distinct absence that’s felt throughout the room—but after dinner, John serves tea from her cherished old tea pot.  It was <em> her </em> timeless recipe that Sherlock had used for the mince pies.  They’ve put Rosie in a proper Christmas dress because she would have absolutely insisted upon it.  Tomorrow they’ll have waffles and honey made from the waffle iron she’d made damn sure they keep.  And really, she gave them this home that they’re now thriving in, against all odds.  </p><p> </p><p>John supposes she’ll always be with them, in a way.</p><p>
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</p><p>They find themselves blissfully alone once the last of their cheerful guests has shut the door behind them.  Rosie has been fast asleep upstairs for hours, having exhausted herself immediately after dinner.  John sits in his chair, staring at the framed photo that Molly had given him only an hour ago.  He stares at his own face, looking lighter and more free than even he realized he was capable of.  He stares at his daughter, perched between them, a moment of surprised glee frozen forever on her face, wild blonde curls framing that toothy grin.  And Sherlock, who isn’t acknowledging the camera at all.  He’s looking at John, and written in his expression are all the things that John can only hope show through in himself.  He thinks that they do.  After last night, he believes that they do—he believes that Sherlock, at least, can see them.</p><p> </p><p>Sherlock sits in his own chair, barely a foot away, watching John.</p><p> </p><p>“I have something for you,”  John says, his voice a bit raspy, a bit lower than usual.  He’s been anticipating this moment for awhile now.  His nerves are on edge, emotions close to the surface.  Sherlock says nothing, only looks back at him curiously, waiting.  John stands, approaching the framed piece of 221B’s damask wallpaper that smiles back at them from over the mantle.  He lifts it away from the wall, pulling the two envelopes he’d taped to the back of it free.  Sherlock raises a surprised eyebrow.  Evidently, he hadn’t worked that one out just yet.  John grins, hands them over.</p><p> </p><p>Sherlock studies the first—a simple white envelope, all business, no frills.  Lined with a standard blue security pattern that can be glimpsed through the thin white paper.  John can see the moment he deduces what’s inside.</p><p> </p><p>“John,”  Sherlock breathes.  John clears his throat, tries—he really does—not to cry.</p><p> </p><p>“Long overdue,”  He manages.  Sherlock looks up at him, eyes red-rimmed and not entirely dry, then glances back down at the envelope.  He opens it carefully, inhaling slowly as he slides the adoption papers free, carefully unfolding them, already filled out and signed by John.  “As I said—”</p><p> </p><p>Sherlock is out of chair and hovering in front of John before he can complete a single coherent thought.  When he kisses him it’s with the sort of intensity that sends John spinning like a wild and wobbling top, leaves him gasping, holding in a sob.  Sherlock pulls him up and out of his chair.  Kisses him again.  This time gentle, easy.  A whirlwind.</p><p> </p><p>“A proper family, then,”  Sherlock breathes.  “This is what you want?”</p><p> </p><p>“We <em> are </em> a proper family, you absolute cock,”  John whispers, standing close, both hands on Sherlock’s heaving chest.  “This is just a formality.  Of course it’s what I want.  As I said—long overdue,”  He wraps Sherlock up in a lingering embrace, then steps back, glances at the second envelope, lying abandoned on Sherlock’s chair.  “Open the other one.”</p><p> </p><p>“I haven’t got anything for you to unwrap,”  Sherlock says once he’s gotten his voice back a bit.  “Since you <em> demanded </em> I not buy you anything.”</p><p> </p><p>“Not sure when you started listening to my demands, but I’m glad for it.  I’ve got everything I need.  Open it.”</p><p> </p><p>Sherlock does.  This envelope is a bit more inscrutable.  Thick, off-white paper, slightly larger and more square.  John watches as Sherlock studies it, wonders what he’s deduced.  Evidently not much, because after only a moment, he pulls the small stack of papers from their sheath.</p><p> </p><p><em> “Hudson Housing Grant,” </em> Sherlock mutters to himself, reading whatever details—John hadn’t bothered to read through them—the certificate contains.  Mycroft had done most of the dirty work on this one.  It was a bit of a process, even for the British Government himself.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, John,”  Sherlock is quiet.  Very quiet.  He hasn’t looked up from the paperwork, but it seems he’s got the gist of it.  John clears his throat, tries to reign in his emotions yet again.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s government funded, see?  Or maybe Mycroft is funding it.  He wouldn’t tell me if he were.  Not sure if there’s really a—a difference.  Sherlock?</p><p> </p><p>“These things take—time.  How long have you—”</p><p> </p><p>“Just under a year,”  Just after they’d lost her.  John watches Sherlock instantly do the mental math, his face a complicated mixture of grief and affection.  “I’d wanted to—you know.  Memorialize her—somehow.  For you.  And I thought—well in the end, it was your idea, really.  Even if you didn’t know what I’d been up to.  When you told me your plans for Baker Street it just—”  Sherlock has turned his head away, staring off at the fading fire in the grate.  “—clicked.  Sherlock,”  John reaches for his wrist.  Feels a racing heartbeat beneath his fingertips.</p><p> </p><p>“Hudson Housing Grant,”  Sherlock says, again, as though testing the words on his tongue to see how they feel.</p><p> </p><p>“Mm.  The Martha Hudson Sober Living Grant didn’t have quite the same ring to it, but—that—that’s what it is,”  John inhales slowly, leans forward a bit, squeezes Sherlock’s wrist.  “The first recipient has already been chosen.  It’ll cover housing costs in a sober living facility for six months after rehab.  And—ah—a new recipient will be chosen every six months—indefinitely,”  He nods to himself, watching Sherlock closely for signs of life.  He’s lost in thought, clearly.  “That about covers it,”  John says quietly, not really expecting to be heard.</p><p> </p><p>When Sherlock comes back online, he stands rather abruptly, taking John’s hand.</p><p> </p><p>“Bed,”  He says, and heads for the stairs, dragging John along without waiting for a response.</p><p>
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</p><p>This time once they’ve pulled the linens over their heads, it’s Sherlock who covers John’s face in gentle presses of his mouth.  John submits easily, keeping his eyes shut tight and reveling in the sensation of this—of careful touches, reverent movements.</p><p> </p><p>Sherlock takes his time.  He lets his hands roam over planes of muscle, lingering in all of John’s softest places—then he turns John’s world inside out with relentless, competent fingers until he’s sobbing and wanting and pleading in his arms.  When at last Sherlock presses himself into John’s body, he moves in tender waves, steady rolls of powerful hips—slow and deep and so impossibly fulfilling, entirely consuming—such a clear testament to everything they are and all that they share that John can hardly breathe.</p><p>
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</p><p>He isn’t sure how much time has passed—knows only that he’s been drifting in and out of sleep.  At some point Sherlock seems to have tidied them up and fused himself to John’s side, head on John’s chest, fingers dancing through the hairs on his belly.  John lifts his head just enough to press a kiss to his temple.  A greeting, of sorts.</p><p> </p><p>“Hello,”  Sherlock murmurs, turning his head to peer up at him.</p><p> </p><p>“Hello,”  John whispers.  Sherlock watches him in silence for what feels like a very long time.  He watches back.  Waits.</p><p> </p><p>“Do you know, John, that from the very start, you’ve always surprised me?”  His voice is low, private.  A secret.  John looks at him, thinks this over.  <em> Yes, </em> he supposes, is the answer.  There have been countless times over the years—from the very start, as he says—that John watched an expression of absolute surprise flit over Sherlock’s features as a direct result of something John himself has done or said.  He thinks this, but says nothing.  Sherlock seems to see it anyway.  He smiles.  “Of course you do,”  He sighs, sliding a hand up to cup the side of John’s neck.  “You anticipate exactly what I need, even when I haven’t realized I may need it.”</p><p> </p><p>“Not always,”  Another whisper.  John thinks of all the times he gave Sherlock precisely the opposite of what he’d needed.  He thinks of harsh words and thrown fists.  Abandonment and blame.</p><p> </p><p>“No,”  Sherlock says softly.  “Not always.  For years now, though.  And tonight.  Certainly tonight,”  John combs his fingers through soft, dark curls.</p><p> </p><p>“You miss her,”  He says.  Sherlock closes his eyes.  Nods.  “So do I.  Especially now.  She was the only good thing about Christmas,”  At that, Sherlock smiles.</p><p> </p><p>“Thank you, John,”  John only sighs, continues to card through Sherlock’s hair.  He doesn’t need a thank you.  They lie together in comfortable silence, each lost in their own thoughts of the past.  John dwells, as usual, on how far they’ve come.  He’s thinking exactly that as he begins to drift, feeling warm, cherished, content.  “Oh—I’ve extended our honeymoon by a week,”  Sherlock blurts, dragging John back from the edge of sleep.</p><p> </p><p>“You—what?”</p><p> </p><p>“Happy Christmas.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
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